#Spotify always does me dirty | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ghost-proofbaby · 9 months

Text

twenty four hours (modern eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR TWENTY ONE

in which you try everything you can to make eddie feel better after his encounter with chrissy - to make him forget, to make him feel cherished, to make him feel worthy.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, a single use of Y/N, smut (p in v), oral (m receiving), voyeurism, edging, good old fashioned ball worship if you squint, maybe some sub!eddie if you squint even harder, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 7.3k+

→ a/n: shout out to @hellfire--cult for the balcony idea. i knew i'd get them there at some point, little freaks. and everyone say thank you to @icallhimjoey for the early post 😏

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

21:00 ─────────────ㅇ── 24:00

HOUR TWENTY ONE - 12:00 PM

STEVE-O: why do you guys suck so much at providing photographic proof of being alive? seriously

You’ve been staring at Steve’s text ever since the two of you arrived back at the apartment. You’d reply soon enough, but for now, the message was a distraction.

Eddie wasn’t speaking to you.

Not in a brooding sense, but in a way that let you know he was too far gone in his own head right now for you to reach him. When you’d said those words to him, when you’d admitted that you found him worth it, you saw his eyes glaze over slowly. You’d watched in real time as he slipped away from you. It might be that he doesn’t believe you, it might be guilt that continues to gnaw at him for a past that can’t be changed — whatever it is, you hate it.

The easy solution would be to send Steve the photos from the cafe, but you’d already tried that. Your thumb had hovered over that photo of Eddie with a mouthful of croissant, still bright and brilliant before all his waves of self-hatred had gotten ahold of him, and you just couldn’t. It was selfish, it was ridiculous, but you couldn’t share that piece of him with others. Some small, childish, hopeless bit of you needed to cling to the man in that photo and keep him safely inside your chest. It wasn’t a new version to your friends, they’ve always tried to defend Eddie and convince you he wasn’t all bad, but it was new to you. It was all so unexpected and unforeseen, the look behind his golden eyes as he seemingly looked right past the camera and right into you.

No, you couldn’t send that photo. It was for your eyes only. A souvenir you had greedily stolen.

Eddie had excused himself to the bathroom when you two arrived at the apartment, and this time, there was no dirty intentions behind it. You left well enough alone — he needed a moment to be by himself and that was fine. You could entertain yourself until he was ready to come back to you, back down to Earth. Right now, you were currently picking apart an almond croissant as if it were the most interesting thing you’d ever laid eyes on.

Croissant dissection — see? You absolutely could distract yourself in order to give him space. Absolutely no sarcasm there.

You finally sigh when you see a message bubble pop up with three little dots, signifying Steve is typing again. You don’t give him the time to properly finish out his message before you click on your camera icon, snap a shot of the picked apart croissant in front of you, and send a message with the image attached.

YOU: we were eating breakfast, eddie’s been in the bathroom. happy, mom?

STEVE-O: he’s been in the bathroom for an entire hour?

YOU: oh, you know how you men get with toilet time.

Despite the playful tone of your texts, your face is completely flat, chest still heavy as you think about Eddie behind the wooden door. Should you be giving Eddie this amount of space? What if it’s doing more damage than good?

You’re about to stand from the stool you’ve occupied for nearly ten minutes now and go try your hand at knocking, try and remind Eddie that you’re still here, when Steve’s next text comes through.

STEVE-O: stop bullshitting me. what happened?

You swear you taste metallic blood from how hard you bite down on your bottom lip, staring at the mocking message. You can’t even begin to explain to Steve what has transpired, not just this last hour, but the entirety of the time. The parking garage, the joking marriage, Chrissy showing up, Eddie’s painful vulnerability – you can’t find the words to tell him about any of it. The same as you can’t find it in you to send the photo of Eddie in Betty’s.

YOU: nothing happened. do you need any more proof than that?

He only reacts to your message with a thumbs up. You assume that means you’re in the clear, for now.

When you exit your thread of messages with Steve, a new thread that has been started catches your eye. It’s a new number, no contact on it. The only message sent is from you – the photo of you with your coffee, head thrown back and eyes shut with a wide smile boosting your cheeks.

Eddie’s phone number.

You look at the photo of yourself for a while, trying to not cringe at your appearance. To you, you just looked ridiculous. You don’t understand why Eddie wanted this photo preserved so badly. Your smile is too wide, your eyes are mere slits from the way your cheeks were squishing up with joy, most of your makeup you’d started the night with has long since faded due to a multitude of activities. You don’t feel like anything special in this photo.

But Eddie had wanted it. He had deemed this moment in time of you as picture-worthy, had gone so far as to send it to himself so that he’d have this memory even if you deleted it from your phone.

Before you think too hard on it, you tap on that line of numbers and add a proper contact profile to it.

EDDIE. You keep the contact name simple, eager to get it out of the way as you move onto the next step. A contact photo. You don’t even have to ponder on it – in a flash, you’ve selected the picture of him with the croissant.

You’re back on the thread of messages – or, at least, the singular message – and don’t stop yourself as your thumbs begin to fly over your keyboard.

YOU: why were the almond croissants almost sold out?

To be fair, you didn’t even know if Eddie had his phone on him. That green message stares back at you for a few moments before you get your answer.

EDDIE: Excuse me?

He has his phone. You lift your head, looking at the closed door of the bathroom before glancing back down at your phone.

YOU: because everyone went NUTS over them.

You perk your ears and listen for any sign of life from down the hall. Anything. A scoff, a pitiful laugh, him calling you stupid aloud. You’ll take whatever he offers.

It takes a moment, and you truly have to strain to hear it, but you can hear the laugh that would better pass as a sigh.

EDDIE: Is that supposed to be a joke?

YOU: ‘supposed to be’. excuse me, it was definitely a joke. and a very good one, at that.

EDDIE: Debatable.

You find yourself smiling down at the phone. Your neck aches from the way you keep glancing up suddenly at the door, silently pleading for him to come back out. To come out and fight with you, come out and bicker with you, come out and ignore you. Anything, for him to leave the bathroom and do anything but keep that door shut between you two.

He doesn’t, so you send another bad joke.

YOU: what did the customer say when they looked at the croissant?

This time, he plays along.

EDDIE: I don't know, what?

YOU: what a BREADtaking sight.

This time, you hear a more proper scoff come from within the bathroom.

YOU: i heard that. don’t even try to tell me it wasn’t funny.

EDDIE: I’m not laughing because they’re funny. I’m laughing because they’re BAD.

YOU: bet you wouldn’t say that to my face.

Immediately, you discard the phone, facedown on the counter as you look up to the door with unbridled hope. He could always ignore the comment, choose to not respond and continue to sulk away from you. It’s entirely possible – but you pray to every star in the sky that that isn’t what he’s going to do.

Please come back out. Please, even if just to sit in silence with me.

Your prayers are answered.

Slowly, painfully slowly, you hear shuffling on the other side of the door and await for the click of the door unlocking. It never comes, though – the door was never locked in the first place. He opens it, and you realize that the entire time, you could have stormed into the small room with him and demanded that he not hide away.

But you didn’t. You gave him space, gave him patience, and it’s clear he knows this as he comes out.

His eyes are red. As if he’s been crying.

“Hi,” you meekly say, taking in his face past those red-rimmed eyes. The tip of his nose is a fading shade of pink, as if he’s been rubbing it incessantly, and he sniffs for good measure as he turns the bathroom light off and walks to where you are.

“Hi,” his voice is rough around the edges as he greets you back. He won’t look you in the eye once he’s within reach – his gaze remains downcast, and you catch him fiddling with a few of his rings.

You hadn’t considered what you would do if you got this far. In every carefully considered scenario, you’d assumed he’d shut you out. You never expected him to come straight to you, as if seeking out comfort from you, without you having to beg it of him.

His eyes catch the croissants on the counter, torn apart and lazily picked at. He’s about to open his mouth and say something about it, probably questioning what you had done to the poor pastry, but you don’t give him a chance. You’re quick to snatch up one of the pieces you’d been picking apart to snack on for yourself and hold it out to him. An olive branch, an offering – a reason for him to sit and stay for a while with you.

He takes it tentatively, finally looking you in your eye again as he takes a small bite. It’s nothing compared to the bite he had taken when you’d snapped the photo of him, mere crumbs compared to that mouthful.

“Did you just… massacre our croissants?” he questions, squinting his eyes down at the crime scene.

You shift your body jokingly, failing at blocking him from seeing the mess you made, “Absolutely not. I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

He almost cracks a grin, “Right. Of course. I must be imagining things.”

“Wanna hear another pun?” you blurt out, suddenly nervous as he continues to stand before you. You hate the incessant need inside of your chest that calls for you to comfort him, to make this all better for him.

“I feel like you’ll tell me one even if I say no,” he raises an eyebrow at you, “So, sure.”

“Why did the croissant go to the doctor?”

He hums, trying to peer over your shoulder again at the croissants you were badly hiding, “Let me guess. Is it because you tore it apart mercilessly?”

“No,” you scoff, reaching behind you to grab another piece to offer to him as well as one of your own, “It was because he was feeling crummy, dumb ass.”

A crack of a smile. It’s miniscule but there. It makes that terrible pun worth it, just to see him not looking quite as defeated is worth all the stars in the sky at this point for you.

You’d certainly been the reason for his unhappiness in the past, and you surely would be again at some point. It all feels so inevitable; just as he believes that he can only bring you misery, you can’t imagine yourself bringing him joy. A belief that strikes something in your chest, something albeit more painful than you’d care to admit, but it’s true. You’ve crossed a line, you’ve changed everything, but the past still remains.

You aren’t perfect. Neither is Eddie.

Heartbreak is imminent, but for this brief moment, you can make him smile. You don’t need to worry about the next time you’ll piss him off or upset him, you just need to focus on making that twitch on his lips more permanent.

“I meant what I said earlier, by the way,” you decide to rip off the bandaid as he moves as if to sit beside you. Quickly, your words make him freeze. A bad sign, but you push through, because he needs to hear these things, “You deserve good things, Eddie. Good people, good things- you just… you deserve those things in your life.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

He’s turning away from you. Turning and heading to the living room, walking away from you.

You don’t let him. In an instant, you get onto your feet and follow him, continuing despite him acting as if he’s finished with the conversation. You’re not.

“You’re a good person, Eddie,” you insist, reaching out for him before he makes it to the couch, “Don’t walk away from me.”

He spins easily in your grip. “Just because you say something, doesn’t make it true, sweetheart.”

He’s back to saying it like a curse. Like it’s a harmful title. As if it’s not a privilege to you and all your metaphors to hear that nickname fall from his lips.

Right before your eyes, his defenses are on the rise. Brick by brick, he’s slowly reforming those walls to separate the two of you. Instead of defeat, instead of acceptance, it just makes you angry.

“Stop doing that,” you say quietly, carefully, firmly.

“Stop doing what?”

“That. Pushing me away. Locking me out,” you tighten your hand on his bicep and watch the way his nostrils flare, “I fucking hate it.”

“Despite what you believe,” he takes a step closer to you, “Not everything I do is meant to piss you off.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, and we both know it,” you can feel his muscles tense beneath your touch.

This time, his smile that emerges is cold. But you can still see the rubbage left by his tears — pink water lines and a new puffiness around his eyes. His words and his sudden cool demeanor can’t hurt you when you see it for what it is.

“Clearly we both don’t know it,” he chastised you, “We are very rarely on the same page. This isn’t a damn exception. You don’t have to prove your point, it doesn’t matter.”

He’s a wounded animal, striking out. He’s letting Chrissy’s words get to him.

“You’re worth i-“

“Don’t,” One of his hands shoot out to grip your waist, “Don’t fucking say that. Please. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

He didn’t believe you.

“I meant it,” you whisper, anger shaking out of your grasp inch by inch as you realize that your words can’t break through to him, “I mean it. You’re worth it, to me, to St-“

“This isn’t about Steve,” he cuts you off, “It’s not about Steve, or Nancy, or Robin, or fucking Argyle. No need to play dumb anymore.”

It’s about you.

You both know it. For once, contradictory to what he’d just claimed, you’re both on the same page. And like he said, no need to play dumb.

“You’re worth it to me,” you say it with more confidence this time, “You’re a good person to me.”

“How can you say that?” he laughs out, void of amusement, “How can you say shit like that after everything we’ve been through?”

How can you not?

You only squeeze his bicep tighter, and he returns the action by gripping your hip harsher. “Because I mean it. I believe it. Whether you do or not.”

For a moment, the cracks in his armor expose themselves.

“You shouldn’t,” his voice should waver, “You shouldn’t believe those things, Y/N. You should hate me.”

“But I don’t,” And I never did.

“But you don’t,” he echoes.

You’ve done the opposite of what you had wanted. His smile is gone, that sadness creeping back up. You hate that. You don’t hate him — you hate that world of mourning behind his eyes, that defeat that brings his shoulders down and makes his grip on you falter. So you do the only thing you can think of to distract him. Make him forget.

“Make me hate you.”

His eyes widen briefly, “Excuse me?”

“Make me hate you,” you practically beg of him, “Show me why you’re such a bad person and I’ll let this go. I’ll drop the conversation, we can- Fuck, we can forget this entire morning happened. Make me hate you, Eddie, and I’ll stop reminding you that I don’t.”

His fingers curl back into you, slowly and gently, as his brows furrow. He’s considering what you’ve just said — more than that, you can see him trying to untangle all the hidden meanings behind it.

“And how do you suggest I do that?” his voice is low and calculated.

You shrug, stepping forward, letting your lips get even closer to his, “Not my problem. Just make me.”

The fingers are no longer gentle as he pulls you into him, finally catching onto the emphasis you place on those two little words.

Make me.

When his lips meet yours, they’re rough and brutal, taking greedily what they want from you. The only thing on your mind is making him forget. Make him forget, carry the load for him — they’re both more important than making him smile for now. Both these driving needs burn brighter in your chest because it’s clear that’s what he needs.

You’re willing to give him whatever he needs right now.

“You want me to make you hate me, baby?” he mumbled against your lip, practically drinking in the way you gasp as he starts to pull back, “Is that really what you want?”

It’s what you want. “Yes.”

And maybe you do too, when he leans back in to bite your lip. There will be another time for you to convince him with words that you find him to be worth it. Both hands from wrap around you and rough start to guide you back towards that fucking couch.

“Not the couch,” you suddenly protest, digging your heels into the carpet at the center of his living room, “Anywhere but the couch.”

And oh, the way he’s looking at you in that moment might be your new favorite thing. Your new favorite color is his eyes as they sparkle with a bit of life that had been missing since the coffee shops encounter. Your new favorite sound is the silence that encases the little breath he lets out. Your new favorite movie is watching him move in slow motion as his eyes dart behind you, towards the door to his balcony, before his lips finally curl up with a hint of the genuine warmth that had been hidden behind his walls.

“Anywhere?” he teases, beginning to walk you backwards.

You nod, grinning right back at him.

“I think I have an idea.”

If you had known twenty one hours ago that Eddie Munson, your sworn enemy, would have you out on his public balcony and on your knees for him in only a matter of time, past you would have….

Well, you don’t really care what past you would have done or thought anymore. You’re making him forget, yes, all while making yourself forget. You don’t care what you, twenty one hours ago, would or wouldn’t do as you let the past slip through your fingers so eagerly. All you can focus on is the dig of concrete against your knees, the way Eddie’s hands grip the railing as he leans against it, and the way the early afternoon sun forms a halo around him as you look up through fluttering lashes.

You just want to make him feel good. Every action is intentional, doing everything in your power to erase whatever storming thoughts had been haunting him so cruelly since Chrissy had so carelessly said what she had. You want to make him feel worthy. You want to make him feel loved.

Loved. You certainly didn’t love him — you couldn’t possibly, could you? He wouldn’t let you. You wouldn’t let yourself. But for now, you could play pretend; you could worship his body, drag his shirt out of the way and place playful kisses across his hips, and you could pretend that only this moment exists.

“You wanna know what makes me such a bad person?” he sighs out as you let your teeth graze his skin, shoulders rolling to shake off that shiver you elicit from him, “This. The fact that this is all I can fucking think about.”

“Hm,” you can only hum in response, nails taking over the denim of the jeans he currently wore. You walk your fingers up his thighs, moving closer and closer to his zipper. Your mouth is nearly watering at the prospect of worshiping him.

And the fact that any neighbor could walk out at any given moment and catch the two of you. You should probably insist on it being fast, on him being quiet, but the thought sends a thrill through the pit of your stomach. Your thighs clench and your cunt aches at the thought of being caught.

You want to do more than make him bite back mere moans of your name. You want to make him scream.

Suddenly, a hand tangles into the roots of your hair, pulling back and making you focus on him again.

“Eyes on me,” he instructs. Once you focus on him and only him, he continues, loosening his grip and letting those fingertips rub at your scalp soothingly, “You know why you should hate me? For all the nights I pictured this.”

“Yeah?” you smile innocently, playing along. He can talk all he wants, you know once you get your mouth on him, he’ll be lucky to remember his own name. “How many nights, hm? Tell me all about them, pretty boy.”

You catch the wobble in his knees, the way his breathing picks up, the brilliant shade of ivory his knuckles stretch to. You lean back on your haunches, and the hand in your hair slips as he glowers down at you.

“What are you-”

“Take off your shirt,” you calmly command.

“Excuse me?”

“Your shirt. I want it off.”

His hand that was once tangled against your scalp now comes down to your face, movement slow but not hesitant as he pinches your chin. His thumb tugs on your bottom lip, and you let out, even making a show of letting your tongue peek out to tap at it. “And who said you were calling the shots?”

“I did,” you put it simply, completely removing your hands from him now, “Take off the shirt, or I’ll leave you out here with blue balls.”

You close your lips around the end of his thumb and his knuckles dig in deeper to the skin below your chin as you suck subtly. He chuckles, but you can hear just how breathless he goes at the small action, even as he keeps up the act with a hard press of his thumb on your lower lip. Your mouth hangs open for him, waiting patiently for his next move.

A game of chess, an exchange of power, a fight for dominance. All the lines of who is and isn’t in control are blurred.

“Have you always been so mean, baby?” he taunts, trailing what spit you’d left behind on his thumb along your lip.

His movement stops when your lips spread into a provocative smile, “I learned from the best, didn’t I?”

The retort had potential to backfire. You wait for smoke and glory, for him to pull away from you further. He’d slam down a brick right in front of your face, lay the mortar to leave you high and dry. He’d push you away, and you’d have to retreat, tail tucked between your legs in the shame of trying when it came to him.

No smoke, no glory. He secedes, but makes no move to add to his walls, only removing his hand from your face and taking off the shirt. Just as you had told him to.

“Better?” he asks as he makes a show of tossing the shirt to the other side of the balcony. It could have even flown over the railing, for all you paid attention to the scrap of clothing. Maybe some innocent bystander is on the streets below, confused to all Hell as to why it’s raining obscure band t-shirts.

You’re just a bit too distracted to consider that right now.

With Eddie’s torso revealed, all words seem to evade you. You catch the sweat beginning to gather across his sternum, watching the way he’s flushing beneath your gaze, reveling in the pink chest exposed to you as the blush crawls wider. Instantly, your original purpose is forgotten, the primal urge to pepper kisses and bites alike across his skin almost lifting you up off your sore knees. You want to leave bruises – you want to make him scream, you want to mark him up, you want to make him feel worthy.

You stay on your knees, but compromise with all your wants as you lift up and stretch a bit. Your lips start their trail a bit lower than you (or Eddie) would have liked, taking their time to get familiar with the spanse of his rib cage first. You don’t nip with teeth, not yet. Just chaste kisses, lining each bone you can hardly feel residing beneath the skin, feeling his lungs expanding against your affection. Your tongue swipes alongside one of his side tattoos, a large and detailed dragon you hadn’t paid much mind to before. Every time you’d seen him shirtless, you’d been a bit distracted.

Not now. Now, you’re focused, determined to learn every curve and dip there is to explore on Eddie. You want to know him better than the back of your hands, memorize him more intricately than your own palms. After all, in order to worship a deity, you must know them.

You return back to the center line of his abdomen, kisses chasing after one another, even taking the time to suck his skin between your teeth but never bite down. You pause once your lips rest right beneath his navel, the tip of your nose brushing that rough patch of hair that leads down to your end destination. Your hands reach for his belt, toying with the buckle.

Through heavy lashes, you look up at him, staring down at you in awe, “You know, you’re not doing a very good job at making me hate you, pretty boy. Think I might just have to worship you instead.”

A deity of your own making. A deity for your own taking.

With skill, your hands undo the buckle effortlessly. You unbutton and unzip his jeans as if you’ve done this part a million times, as if you’d spent every single Sunday of the last year right here and doing exactly this. On your knees, worshiping him. This balcony, for all its exposure, certainly knows how to serve as a holy place.

He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re impatient. You still haven’t left him speechless, meaning you still hadn’t made your point, clearly.

His jeans hang loosely as they creep down his thighs, abandoned for a moment as you occupy your mouth against his hips. The hips you once thought would look so pretty properly decorated. You decide you were wrong – they don’t need ink burying into the skin, they need your teeth digging in.

You cover that skin with mirroring images of bursts of purple and pink, flowering bruises that you take your time to mark onto him. With each suck and bite, Eddie rolls his hips into you, head leaned back and throat straining with each moan he swallows down.

With the last hickey finished, you finally lean back, proud of your masterpiece as Eddie whimpers above you. Blooms in the shape of your lips mingle with faint and quickly fading teeth marks.

“Fuck,” he gasps out when your fingertip stops trailing over your markings and comes down to apply the softest pressure over the straining bulge in his boxers.

“What was it that you said earlier?” your finger traces over where you know a vein is – you know it because you’ve felt it, been driven insane by it – before circling around the wet patch now forming. He’s desperate, hips bucking again and a moan finally escaping. You think he’s bitten his lips hard enough in an attempt at self-restraint that they might be bleeding, “You said I’m not calling the shots, right?”

“You’re not,” he pathetically grits out, hands forming tighter fists on metal railing, as if the moment he lets go of it they’ll find their way home to you.

You lean forward, breath washing over his crotch before you place a feathery kiss to his clothed tip, “I’m not?”

You are. You both know you are. A constant battle of control, an ever-growing fight for dominance.

He lets out something crossed between a sigh of relief and a whine of protest when you remove your lips and hand from him completely, only to let out a sharp yelp when your finger curls into the waistband of his boxers and pulls back the elastic, letting it snap back into place sharply.

“Say I am,” you barter, “Say I’m in control right now, and I’ll put my money where my mouth is.”

You don’t expect him to break so easily. You’ve underestimated just how tightly you’ve caught him beneath your thumb.

“You’re in control,” he gasps out, head hanging low to meet your gaze fully, “You’re in complete and utter fucking control of me. You’re calling all the shots, baby. You always are.”

He didn’t have to sweeten it up with baby, but it spurs you on.

You shove his boxers down, watching his cock spring out for the taking. And you do as you promised; you put your money where your mouth is.

You start softly, taking your time as you gingerly suck on his pretty pink tip as you had his thumb. Hardly hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue circle his slit to gather up the precum. You let the taste of him completely cover your tongue, even hum in satisfaction when he lets out a loud groan. It motivates you, feeds your fervor as you let his tip fall from your mouth and trail the tip of your tongue down the underside of his cock. That vein you’d traced with your fingertip, yours for the taking, covered in a faint line of saliva as you let it rest on your forehead and graze your lips against his ballsack.

He can’t hide his shiver, even as his fist flies to his mouth to bite down on.

“Have I ever told you how cute you are?” you say low enough for just him. You can hear the sounds of traffic, a dog barking, birds singing — all reminders of the outside world and the looming threat of being caught. Warmth floods you again at the reminder of that threat, thighs clenching closer together in a desperate search of friction, “Just falling apart for me, acting so tough for so long until I got you alone.”

He whimpers your name. It’s the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.

You wrap your lips around the sensitive skin, sucking and pecking away on one side before moving to the next. His reaction throttles your movements. When his hand loses the fight of resistance, coming down to the back of your head, you laugh breathlessly against the now wet skin.

“Let me make you feel just how worthy you are to me,” you praise, pulling back finally, letting your nose brush against his sack as you do so. The hand that was once merely resting now tangles up in your hair — a warning.

You let the velvet skin of his cock drag down your cheek as each movement is deliberate, taking your time and in no rush. You want to savor him like this. Imprint him to memory.

You want to make him forget while making yourself remember.

You want to remember the way his hand flexes at the base of your skull when you finally kiss his tip once more, remember the way his abdomen tenses as you sink him further into your mouth. You want to remember every little sound that escapes him as he hits the back of your throat, as you constrict around him, as you moan around his base and the vibrations have him slipping out of control.

Your nails dig into his thighs to balance yourself, eyes watering as you look up at him. One subtle nod. He doesn’t need more than that.

Your jaw goes slack, trying to steady your breathing through your nose as you let him take control. His hips thrust at their own pace, gentle enough that he only grazes the back of your throat rather than bruise it. The issue is you want him to bruise it. You want him to mark you from the inside out. Until there’s no part of you left untouched by him.

You gag again, and he slows. Your fingers that grip his thighs immediately tap against him, and he mistakes it as a signal to pull back completely before you chase after him, pressing him onto your tongue until your lips are snug around his cock a mere inch from the base. Your nose is grazing those pubes in the dead center of all your love marks. Shapes of semi-permanent scars that whisper, you’re worth it to me. I want this. I want you.

The last thing on his mind was Chrissy Cunningham and her words alluding to him not being worth it.

You make sure of it when you finally release him from your mouth and begin to pump with an eager fist, ducking down and returning to pay attention to his balls once more. You nuzzle the soft skin, let the tips of your canines graze them before you suck them onto your tongue as you’d done his cock. He’s no longer containing his moans – they flow freely along with curse words, chants of your name, sounds you’d love to capture and play on repeat until the end of your days.

“Oh my God,” he groans out particularly loudly, “Fuck, baby. J-Just like that, please- Fuck. You’re doing so good for me. Such a good girl, just for me.”

Your hand is still wrapped around him, slowly coming up to squeeze hard around the tip as you whisper up to him, “Only for you.”

“Yeah? Only for me?”

You don’t know how to explain to him that it’s true: you’re only ever that mean for him, you’re only ever this eager for him, you’re only ever this desperate for him.

You don’t answer him with words. There are none. Instead, you take him back in your mouth, and you solely focus on bringing your deity to climax. The man you were worshiping, the man who was worth the ache in your knees that surely told you they would be left bruised, if not skinned.

“Is it just like you imagined?” you question as you break your lips off him. He’s close, leaking precum excessively and entire body taut, “Was it worth it? To picture this, to want this so badly?”

He almost can’t answer you, but somehow manages between pants, “It was. It is. You’re- fuck, you’re worth it.”

“Good,” you drop your hand from him, leaving him right on the edge as you rest both sticky palms on the tops of your thighs. You look up at him with relinquished control – the perfect image of submission, for him. “Then you get it. When I say you’re worth it, you get it.”

He’s clearly still reeling from you bringing him so close only to leave him hanging, teetering on a cliff as he stares you down.

His chest heaves as he questions, “What was it you wanted me to do earlier?” A deceiving hand comes down, tucking any baby hairs behind your ear and cradling the side of your face. One moment, his thumb is stroking a soft arch beneath your eye, the next that hand is pulling you up, “Make you?”

You know that if you hadn’t been so eager to follow his touch, you’d still be on your knees. Even as you watch him take the reins, you know you will always call the shots – just like he had said.

“You really think you can make me hate you?” you whisper once you’re standing tall in front of him, leaning your cheek into his touch.

“I shouldn’t have to make you hate me,” he corrects, the thumb back to gentle strokes, loosening the touch to be more tender once again, “You should already hate me.”

“Why?”

He flips positions immediately, your lower back now curving into the railing as he presses himself up against you, his achingly hard cock between your bodies, “Because of this. Because I always want you on your knees for me. Because of all the fucking filth I want to do to you. I want to bend you over, right here, and take you where anyone could see. I want to have you screaming my name loud enough that every single person on the streets of this city hears you.”

With each word, a knot ties inside of you, desperate for release.

“Because you’re fucking right,” he leans down, lips going straight for your neck, not looking you in the eyes, “All it fucking took was for you to get me alone for one night, and now? I’ll never get enough of you, I’ll never get clean of you,” he takes a deep breath, and suddenly, his lips latch onto you, sucking the skin between his teeth and biting hard. You can’t stop your fingers from latching onto his curls, tugging hard, body rolling into his. It hurts, it stings, you need more, “Everything changes. And that includes me.”

His face finally leaves the crook of your neck, pulling back to look you in your eyes. Doe brown eyes search yours, wide and honest and pleading. You let everything else melt away; for a moment, it’s only him and only you. The tension, the last twenty one hours, the last year — you let it disintegrate and focus on him.

It never mattered if everything changed.

It only matters that he’s changed, irreversibly, and so are you.

“How can I hate you for those things?” you press into him again, this time less desperate and more consciously, “Do it.”

“Do what?”

“All of it,” you trail a hand up his chest, “Every single thing you just said. Fucking- Do them. Bend me over, make me scream, change me,” your voice breaks, shaking with anticipation and need.

It’s all the encouragement he needs.

Every single thing he wanted, he craved, he does. A flurry of him properly discarding his jeans as he unbuttons yours to shove them down, spinning you and shoving you hard enough into the railing that it digs into your abdomen and leaves you breathless. You’re hardly aware of the way you step out of your pants and kick them to the side, looking out to the city skyline but not seeing it. It’s all a blur as you focus on the way your shirt rides up and he grabs your hips, bruising you finally as you have desperately needed.

You wanted to be left haunted by the end of these last few hours. You wanted to see him every time you looked in the mirror for the next week, to remember the map of where his body molded to yours. You want to dream of the way he stretches you as your underwear is ripped to the side. You want to be followed by the sounds of his skin slapping against yours as he snaps forward with intention.

Changing you. He has no idea that he’s already ripped you open from the inside out, has already rewired your entire chest and set flames to your brain.

Everything changes, and sometimes, everything is only two people. Just you. Just him. New versions that would have never met had it not been for this stupid fucking bet.

“Eddie,” you nearly sob, nearly choke on, his name burning in your throat like kindling embers.

His hand walks up your spine, trailing wildfire even with a layer of cotton between you two. Burning and singing away all you’d assumed for far too long. When he reaches the nape of your neck, he takes care in wrapping your hair around his wrist, tugging back hard and forcing you to stand from where the railing had been bending you in two.

“Say it again,” his lips brush you ear with every gasping breathing, timing with the way his cock is sliding in and out of your warmth, “Say it louder.”

“Fu-“ you start to moan, cut off by him pulling even harder on your hair, making his point so that you cry out, “Eddie!”

He thrusts harder. You swear you could feel him in your throat.

“Scream for me, baby,” an arm wraps around your torso, firm and solid for you to cling to rather than the warming metal of the railing, “Tell them who’s making you feel so good. Let them know. Be a good girl.”

Even when he claims to have control, it’s your actions, your reactions, that call the shots.

It’s the echo of your voice that spurs him on as you chant his name over and over, as if he were your only God. Primal worship dripping from every syllable. It’s the tremble in your thighs that has him pressing deeper into you, chest glued to your back as if he could never get you close enough. It’s the clench of your cunt around him, a vice that sucks him in as you drag him closer to the high he’s been dizzily chasing since you first dropped to your knees in front of him.

It’s you. You’ve changed him, as he’s changed you.

He pulls your hair until you rest the back of your head against his shoulder, back arching and feet still spread as he only maintains his quick and brutal pace, leaning down to whisper in your ear one last time.

“You know the real reason why you should hate me?” he grits out between to particularly forceful thrusts, “It’s not just because I don’t deserve you. It’s because I’ve wanted you for so long,” you’re right on the edge, fluttering around his cock as his movements stutter. A tell tale sign. “I- fuck, fuck. It’s- God, I’ve loved you for so long, and I’ll never be fucking worthy.”

You shatter around him in waves. Your entire body tenses as the words dig claws into you, piercing through vines and blooms. His body stills, warmth flooding you deep within as you continue to see stars. You can’t make a single sound, fingerprints surely left behind on where you clasp onto his forearm.

I’ve loved you for so long, and I’ll never be fucking worthy.

When the waves recede, when the high has passed its peak, you both freeze. Your body tensed in his hold, struggling to process what he’d just said.

Loved you.

He’s frozen in place, scrambling to figure out how to undo the damage just done.

I’ve loved you for so long.

He slips out of you, his spent dripping down your thighs. His forearm drops from you. Your hands don’t even try to stop him.

I’ll never be fucking worthy.

You should be worried of neighbors coming out to see the two of you on his balcony. If not worried, you should be embarrassed, or aching at the thought once again. Anything. You should feel something.

You turn slowly to him, entirely numb as you catch his rueful expression.

Loved you. He loved you.

His regret turns to pain as you whisper, “What did you just say?”

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

taglist is now closed.

#my writing #twenty four hours #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #if it's bad do not tell me #stranger things

2K notes · View notes

liyawritesss · 2 months

Text

ᖴᒪOᗯEᖇᔕ Iᑎ ᗷᒪOOᗰ - ᐯᗩᒪEᑎTIᑎEᔕ ᗪᖇᗩᗷᗷᒪEᔕ

Ｄａｙ２２－Ｍｕｓｉｃ

－So Anxious - 1610!Miles Morales - Spiderman; Across the Spiderverse

－ In which you're Miles' first real crush, and the only way he can communicate with you is through a playlist he made specifically for you.

－ Check out more prompts and other activities on the Flowers In Bloom Event Masterlist!

“You got this, dude!” Says Ganke from behind Miles, acting as if he were the other boy’s ringside hype man, and the task at hand was a boxing match with his dignity on the line. Though, as a teenage boy garnering the balls to go up to his crush in the middle of the school day, it might as well have been.

“I got this!” Miles repeated to himself. “I got this!”

He takes one step forward, leaving the safety of Ganke’s encouragement, and yet the second he does so, the looming threat of rejection meets his skin in a cold wind, and the next thing he knows, he’s turning back towards his best friend, shaking his head vigorously, “I don’t got it, I don’t got it!”

“No, no, yes you do!” Ganke counters in an attempt to restore some faith in his friend. “It’s the simplest thing to do; just let them scan the Spoitfy code for the playlist, and say goodbye. You can totally do this, man!”

“But what if she thinks I’m weird for doing it? You don’t just make a random playlist for anyone!” Miles whines.

“This is your chance to be sort-of friends with your crush, Miles! And they’re definitely not the type to be mean, they’ll appreciate it!” Ganke bargains. “You made one for me, and look at us! We’re best of friends!”

Ganke had a point, Miles admitted to himself, but the fact of the matter still stood that he was already embarrassed enough being talked into making this playlist; now, he let him talk him into giving it to you, and Miles didn’t know if he could handle how you’d look at him for randomly coming up to him out of nowhere.

“I know for a fact that some of the music you listen to, they also listen to. It’s a great way to start a conversation!” Ganke adds on, hopefully giving Miles the edge he needed to toughen up and act on the agreed plan. It wasn’t like you two were complete strangers; you had some classes together, and were paired for a semester project last semester! Which was when this whole crush ordeal started for Miles, subjecting Ganke to more than enough talk about how cute you were and every other song that came on being one that reminded him of you.

The brownskin boy took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, seeing as this was a now or never ordeal, and he’d rather get it done now than drone how he missed the perfect opportunity. So, before even thinking, Miles starts walking towards you.

You’re reading on your Kindle when Miles approaches you. You note the nervous smile - you’ve noticed he’s always relatively skittish around you, which you aren’t sure to feel about. “Hey Miles, what’s up?”

He can barely get the words out, stumbling over them like dirty clothes he’d strewn on the floor instead of tossed into the hamper, “You like music, right? You like, uh, playlists- music playlists?”

You give him a nod to confirm his question, and in a swift movement, he produces his phone in front of you. On it, you can see the Spotify app open to a code to what you presume to be a playlist like mentioned before.

“You wanna curate one together?” You question, an act very possible on the music app, one you’ve utilized yourself numerous times in the past. The boy nods, mumbling something about how you both have similar music tastes, to which you find yourself admitting to as well, having overheard some songs spill out from his headphones sometimes.

With a shrug and an indifferent ‘sure’ leaving your lips, you take out your own phone to scan the code, granting you access to the playlist that already has a couple of songs added to it to start. To you, it was simply an act to start up a friendship; yet for Miles, you’d have no idea just how much it would mean to him and the little crush he harbors for you - which has now only grown bigger.

141 notes · View notes

waynes-multiverse · 15 days

Text

Plastic Hearts – Part 21

Pairing: Director!Dean Winchester x Actress!Reader

Series Summary: Los Angeles, 1985. Y/N’s a young actress without any success, hopping from one failed audition to the next until one desperate mistake brings her to her breaking point. Dean Winchester, on the other hand, is a grade A asshole and washed-up director at the end of his career, known for his godawful slasher movies in the 70s and his love for blow, booze, and women. Lost in the toxic Hollywood life, their paths cross when one hopeless little wrestling show changes their trajectory.

Chapter Warnings: +18, language, smut (p in v, dirty talk, spanking), fluff, angst, comfort

Word Count: 7.6k

A/N: It's finally happening! Get the Office gifs ready 👀😂 It's so good to bring this series back after such an unexpectedly long time away. We've got five more chapters left, so let's make 'em count with as much drama and ridiculousness as possible, shall we? Ready? And action! 🎬

<< 20 || Spotify Playlist || Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

21. Rock You Like A Hurricane

Dean swallows the clot that has formed in the back of his throat as the first button of her white cotton blouse flies open. The air in the office feels dry, his mind hazy. Is he dreaming? Once again, he reminds himself to stop mixing booze and blow. It never ends well and barely ever helps.

Another step forward, another button, another swallow.

Y/N is a Fata Morgana, a mirage, slowly moving towards him through blurry lines and summer heat.

“Don’t you want me?”

The innocent lip bite that accompanies her question sends him downstairs, predestining him to burn in hellfire. He swallows again. Of course, he wants her. He always does.

The heels of his boots dig into the rotten floorboards as he pushes back on his office chair, enough to free his thighs from underneath the wooden desk and show off the bulging erection blooming in his jeans. It started to form as soon as she walked in and turned that damn lock behind her back.

The corners of her pink lips rise to a smile. She likes what she sees, and soon enough, she finds herself slotted between his bow legs with his greedy palms smoothing up her denim-clad thighs until they find a home on the juicy globes of her ass and squeeze tight. Green eyes darken as they wander up her frame before they meet two sparkling orbs that mirror his own lust back to him.

More buttons spring open, the blouse slipping off her shoulders and hitting the ground. A gray leotard becomes visible, two pointed peaks on luscious hills poking through the thin material, his mouth forming a ring around one of them, hot air igniting her skin and stealing her breath. Her arms weave around his neck, her head lolls back between her shoulder blades, her legs grow unsteady. Eyes close, fingers tangle in his hair and claw at his skin.

One large hand travels to the front, works the zipper of her jeans, and shimmies the denim fabric down two smooth thighs. His other arm snakes around her waist, holds her tight, and pulls her closer until she straddles his lap and lets their hips fuse into one.

Their eyes find each other. Gently, he brushes her hair out her face, tucks it behind her ears, strokes her flushed cheeks. She’s breathless and breathtaking, and then she dips her head and catches his lips, kissing him until he is, too.

“Wait, wait, wait…” He draws back in a drunk state of mind and gasps for air, hoping oxygen will help in clearing his head.

“What?” She pouts, her voice velvety soft and delirious.

“I just-… I have to ask you something first, make sure…” The air works wonders, the fog dissipates from his mind. Green eyes watch her closely. There’s something off, something wrong, something out of place. Y/N wouldn’t just stroll into his office and throw herself at him. As much as he enjoys this little dream sequence, it’s not who she is. “Why are you doing this? You’re not-, uhm…” He swallows harshly, his mind racing in circles. “You’re not fucking me, so I’ll stop being mad at you, right? ‘Cause that’s not what I want.”

God, the thought alone kills him. It’s his goddamn nightmare. What if he subconsciously manipulated her to do this? What if he’s taking advantage of her? What if he drove her so desperate that she sees this as her only option? What if she actually doesn’t want this?

But a gentle smile forms on her face instead. She pecks his lips, rests her forehead against his, and softly shakes her head. There’s amusement in her voice. “You already said you weren’t mad at me, remember?”

“Then why?”

Y/N shrugs and licks her ample lips. “I want to. I want you… You’re the best guy I know. I can’t think of anyone I’d want this with more,” she assures him with a sweet smile and caresses the scruff on his cheeks, her hips grinding against his crotch. “It’s just-…” She bites down on her lower lip, cutting off her sentence.

“What? Tell me, sweetheart.” He clutches her chin and draws her gaze to meet his eyes.

“Even with the show being over, I don’t want the girls to find out,” she confesses nervously.

Dean nods in understanding and gifts her a smile. “Lucky for you, I’m good at keeping secrets. Have I ever let you down in that regard?”

She thinks for a beat, then shakes her head and matches his smile. “No.”

“See?” He grins, showing his pearly white teeth, and pulls her lips back to his for a searing kiss that seals their deal.

His hands begin to roam the curves they’re holding, her hips rocking against his in a needy rhythm, desperately searching for more friction to scratch the unbearable itch he seems to cause.

“Need you so bad, need this cock so bad…” she whispers between kisses and ragged breaths.

“Yeah? You think you can get off like that?” Dean lifts his thigh a little higher, shoves it right against her clothed cunt to give her a bit more friction, and listens to her whimpers in satisfaction. “Show me how much you want this… want me, baby girl. Wanna know how desperate you are for this cock, Y/N. Work for it.” His challenge is accompanied by a little smirk, which soon disappears and becomes stuck in his throat when Y/N accepts with eager nods.

Shit, he really needs to stop underestimating her. That’s already been his first mistake when he met her.

Her arms lock tighter around his neck for more balance as she rubs her pussy against the rough denim that covers his thick thigh. Her breathing grows so labored that kissing becomes an impossibility, the need for air in her lungs greater than the need to stay connected. The strong arm slung around her waist helps her move while his other hand tweaks, pinches, and gropes her tit, prying the gray cotton of her leotard over one shoulder to free the flesh and expose her nipple to the cool office air and his hot breath. He feels a wet patch forming on his leg, sees the stain on his jeans from her arousal as he peeks down between them.

“Dean, I’m–…”

Y/N doesn’t have to say it out loud. He can see it on her face that she’s damn close. “Such a good girl. Cum for me, huh? Let me finally fill and stretch this nice pussy with my cock, baby. Been waiting for you,” he coos. “Bet you’re so tight, yeah? How long’s it been?” His tongue licks the hardened bud before he pops her tit in his mouth and sucks, bites, tears.

“Fuck!”

She explodes, his name falling from her lips in prayer as she trembles and quivers in his arms. Her mouth parts, sucks in as much air as she can to fuel her lungs. Her arms cling to him, fingers denting the skin on his broad shoulders.

“That’s my girl,” Dean praises her, smiling as he lets her ride out her orgasm. “So, so pretty when you come. I missed that face.”

“Dean, please… Need you inside me now,” she purrs against his lips, swallowing his groans as they connect.

“Yeah? You sure?”

“Uh-huh, please,” she begs breathily. “How d’you want me, boss?”

“What do you want, Y/N?” Hearing what a woman wants him to do to her or what she wants to do to him has always been one of the biggest turn-ons for him. “Tell me.”

“Want you to bend me over your desk, take me hard, punish me… Been a bad girl. Need you to punish me, please,” she whimpers and hungrily claims his lips, her nails digging into his jaw.

Now, Dean should probably be worried or at least stumped by her somewhat strange request. Not because it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard a woman ask for in the bedroom, but because it’s not necessarily something Y/N would say. However, she’s also an actress, and he’s about 99.9% sure she’s playing a role and following a script in her head. And well, hey, he likes playing too, so who would he be to deny her wishes? He’s been dreaming about spanking her ass and punishing his favorite Russian villain for weeks at this point.

“I think we can arrange that, baby girl,” he promises, a saucy smirk plastered on his lips. “But first – need to see your face when I break you in, yeah?”

Y/N grins and nods against his lips, her hand reaching down between their heated bodies and unbuckling his belt, pulling it from its loops, metal clinking before the sound of a zipper follows. Lifting her ass from his lap, he helps her strive off the denim, pushing it down his legs till it pools by his ankles, only leaving a thin barrier of cotton between them.

“Condom?”

Dean nods and motions for her to stand up, so he can reach into the bottom drawer of his desk. As he fishes out a foil packet, Y/N discards her leotard, nothing but naked skin and flesh left for his eyes to devour. Removing his own pair of boxers, his long cock bounces against his stomach and stretches to his belly button, fully erect, head swollen, and leaking at the tip. He tears the foil with his teeth and rolls the latex down his aching length before his hands drag her back into his lap.

Her arms settle on his muscular shoulders, her lips find and bruise his as he lines himself up with her entrance and threads his dickhead through her dripping folds. Her cunt is pink and glistening, hot and wet as he slowly slides inside, lets her feel every inch that fills her tight hole to the brim, her small body sinking down on him till they’re inseparable.

A moan escapes them both when he’s fully sheathed in her heat, and Dean knows lasting long would border on a miracle. Her mouth falls open as he stretches her tight walls, her eyes seeking his and not daring to look anywhere else. Unsurprisingly, Y/N takes direction well. She remains connected to him – mind, body, and soul.

“Fuck, Dean,” she breathes and swallows at the sheer thickness inside of her, her eyes finally falling closed as their foreheads meet.

Dean caresses her cheek and softly pecks her hairline. He then shuts his eyes as well and just focuses on the feeling of her wrapped around him for a blissful heartbeat. This is all he ever wanted.

Her. Here.

“You good?” he checks, his fingers trailing soothingly up and down her spine as she relaxes her muscles and adjusts to his size.

A gentle smile twitches and tugs on her lips. “Yeah, I’m great… You feel great.”

“You know, if you keep giving me compliments like that, it’s gonna be hard for me to smack your perky ass purple and blue,” he chuckles and watches a grin form.

“I like to make things hard for you,” she sasses and kisses his lips, her pussy purposely gripping his throbbing dick.

“There’s my bad girl.” Dean can’t fight the smile on his face. “Alright, you ready?”

Dean doesn’t have to wait for an answer as her hips begin to lift and rock against him, calming like the Pacific waves and soothing like the lullabies his mother used to sing when he was sick as a child.

“M-more,” Y/N whines, the needy desperation haunting her vocal chords.

“Beg for it,” Dean whispers, nuzzling his nose against her ear with a smirk.

“Please… Please fuck me, boss,” she rasps her pleas. “Need it hard and fast.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.” Dean catches her lips, the kiss scorching and lasting before his hands smooth up her bare thighs and grab her ass tight, lifting them both from the chair.

Swiftly, her soles hit the ground as he swirls her in his hold and bends her over his desk. Her tits press flush against the wood, his palms finding her hips as he pulls her closer to him, ass up until it brushes against his solid length. With his knees, he spreads her legs wide and easily slots between them. He palms both asscheeks, caresses the skin before he administers his first slap, the sound echoing through his quiet office with her whimper as he watches the juicy flesh ricochet, completely entranced.

“You got a safe word, Y/N?” Dean asks as he soothes the red spot on her cheek.

“Hmmm,” she muses and bites her lower lip, and he can see the mischief twinkling in her orbs. She giggles, “What about ‘camera guy’?”

His palm strikes the other globe, making her yelp and jolt on the spot.

“Ow, fuck!” Y/N’s moan drowns in a laugh. “Jesus, Dean, I was just kidding.”

The director chuckles, “Yeah, well, I wasn’t.” With one harsh and fast thrust, he drives his cock back into her tight cunt, causing her to slam forward, her hips bruising against the desk. Her fingers curl tightly around the edge, knuckles white as she keeps herself pinned in place. He leans forward, his chest pressing against her back as his warm breath fans against the shell of her ear, his blunt fingernails denting the skin on her hips. Smirking, he demands, “Safe word. Now.”

“Fuck, uhm…” Breathlessly, her mind spirals, his cock slowly dragging in and out of her and not stopping to give her even a second to ponder. “Squirrel?”

“Squirrel it is,” he agrees amusedly, straightening as he picks up his pace and drives in deeper, watching as his dick gets swallowed by her soaking cunt, his swollen shaft glistening with her slick. “Shit, baby girl… Wish you could see how well you take me. Your needy little pussy sucks my fat cock right in,” he groans, listening in delight as his balls slap against her ass with each roll of his hips.

“Maybe you can bring your camera next time, boss,” Y/N mewls her suggestion as she falls apart underneath him.

“Yeah? Would you like that, huh? Would you like to see how fucking desperate you are for me, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh, would love that, boss. Wanna see how you fuck me and split me open,” she breathes hazily, her moans getting louder with each slam of his hips. “F-fuck, so close… Wanna come on your cock, please.”

“Oh, we can arrange that, sweetheart,” Dean chuckles, his breathing growing more labored as well as sweat starts to collect on his skin in sticky beads. He’s close, too, feels his cock throb and swell inside of her. His palm smacks her asscheek one last time. She cries out with pleasure as the sting burns her skin, her pussy clenching around his dick and gripping it tight.

But just as his hand sneaks to her front and finds the sensitive little nub, their ears both perk up as the big metal door of the gym flies open and a wave of female chatter floods inside.

“Oh, shit!” Y/N moans loudly at his last violent pound into her pussy before Dean’s palm covers her mouth and stops the rest from spilling out.

Pulling her up, her back straightens and presses flush against his body. He slows his thrusts but still pushes in deep enough to tickle her cervix and keeps the little circles on her clit alive, feeling her knees give in as her legs become putty. Her breathing is harsh and restricted against his palm, her lips straining and tightening to keep the screams inside.

“Ssh, ssh, ssh… you’re doing so, so good, baby,” Dean whispers his praises into her ear and chuckles as she clenches hard around his dick. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Trust me, they won’t hear us over their blabbering,” he chuckles. “Relax, okay? Let loose… little more,” he orders her, feeling the tension in her muscles shift to her head as she bites down on his fingers to keep it locked inside. “There you go… Gonna need you to come quietly, and I’ll be right behind you, alright? Can you do that?” Y/N nods against his hand. “Good girl,” he coos and pecks her temple quickly.

And then, he draws out till only the tip remains inside her drenched channel before he roughly slams back in. His thrusts become relentless in both speed and force as he fucks her, her screams of pleasure only muffled by his palm and the harsh bite of her lip. Tears sting her eyes and stream down her cheeks, trickling onto his fingers at the intense pressure as her walls tighten. One more thrust, and they begin to flutter, her body convulsing as she falls over the cliff and milks his cock for all he’s got, pulling him over the edge with her.

A primal grunt rumbles in his chest and crawls out of his throat, his fingers leaving bruises on her hips behind as he spills hot ropes of his seed into the condom, his cock throbbing in rhythm with her twitching cunt. His hand falls from her mouth as she braces her palms on the wooden surface in front of her.

Deliriously, they both gasp for air, every breath jagged before the storm within them calms. Dean brushes her hair from her sweat-covered neck and lovingly kisses the salty skin on her shoulder blade, a blissful smile gracing his lips.

The sun blinds her eyes as Y/N stands on the green, perfectly cut lawn of the Dusty Spur. The boys have called an emergency meeting at the motel this time, gathering all the women in front of the reception outside.

It’s been three days since she has fucked the director in his office. He was careful not to leave any marks on her throat behind or anywhere else where it might catch unwanted attention, no one batting eyelashes at the new bruises on her hips that joined some of the old ones from training.

Dean told her he wanted a repeat of their encounter, whispering the dirtiest and most sinful promises into her ear. However, they haven’t seen much of each other since then. Both of them have been quite busy after the news of their new time slot and impending cancelation broke. And while it certainly dampened the lighthearted mood in the gym for a day, hope was not entirely lost, though, and still thrived in everyone but Y/N and Jo.

Yet, the two of them played along with the illusion the show still could be saved for the sake of the team. She didn’t know why Jo was entertaining the farce, but Y/N did it for her friends and, well, Dean, who’d been pondering and working nonstop to try and figure out what went wrong in his well-oiled machinery.

Y/N hates that he blames himself, not having the guts to tell him it’s in reality all her fault. Even with his sunglasses on his freckle-dusted nose, she can see the bags under his green eyes from the lack of sleep in recent days and feels more guilt pooling in the pits of her stomach. She doesn’t want him to be mad at her again, which is why she’s glad she can use Billie’s new, harsh training regiment as a good excuse to avoid him.

“They gave a men’s wrestling show our slot! And you wanna know why, hm?” Cas throws his rhetorical question into the group. Y/N has never seen the producer so angry and swallows more shame down. “Truth is, they’re better! They fly higher and hit harder!

“They hit harder because they’re bigger. It’s physics,” Y/N points out and tries to keep her annoyance at bay. It’s a men’s world they’re living in, and she’s getting sick and tired of the comparisons.

“Oh, fuck physics, Y/N!” Cas yells, causing her to flinch at his tone. “I need you to take everything you got and push it all the way to the limit, okay?”

“I don’t know what else we can do. We’ve been training for hours almost every day. Sun up till sun down,” Donna says and sighs.

Maybe it’s not too late, and Y/N should request a private meeting with Dick at the network, try and smooth things over before they get any worse. Maybe a blowjob in the office is enough to get them their old slot back and save the show. Dean wouldn’t ever have to know, right?

Besides, would he even care? Maybe he’d be grateful. After all, she doesn’t have much worth beyond fucking someone if you asked anyone here.

“I don’t need to hear excuses. I need to hear results,” Cas huffs and places his hands on his squared-off hips, shaking his head.

“You want bigger moves? Fine, you’ll get ‘em,” Billie assures him with a biting fighter spirit.

Cas’ lips curve into an enthusiastic smile. “That’s what I wanna hear! Look, I know this is gonna be hard, but I believe in miracles, and we’re going to make this miracle happen!”

Jo heaves a sigh. “Right, so we break our bodies and wrestle harder and magically get our time slot back?” she asks wryly, but her sarcasm is sadly lost on Cas.

“Yes!” the producer agrees joyously. “Look, I have it from Richard Roman himself that this is what they’ve been missing.”

At that, Jo’s blaming eyes wander to Y/N as the two former friends share a look. Shamefully, Y/N averts her gaze to the green grass underneath her feet, and Jo clenches her jaw tightly and starts to grind her teeth. Ever since their heated conversation in the gym, things have went downhill between them. Nowadays, there are just judgmental looks and passive-aggressive comments passed between them.

“So you met with Richard Roman?” Jo turns her unresolved anger towards the guys.

Cas groans loudly and rolls his blue eyes back. “Jo, I’m sorry, okay? It was a guy thing. We had to storm the gates,” he explains.

“Yeah, don’t get back up on your feminist high horse, alright? We didn’t leave you out, okay?” Dean jumps to Cas’ defense and unsuccessfully smooths things over. “We just think your focus should be on performing this week, you know? You and Y/N have a big match coming up. The, uh, continuing tale of the bereaved mother and the insane Russian, right?”

Jo nods and clenches her jaw once more, biting back her surely fiery comments.

“Okay, enough talking! Let’s do it!” Cas announces eagerly and claps his palms together as the women scatter back to their rooms to get ready for today’s training.

“What time do you wanna rehearse today?” Y/N bitterly asks her blonde opponent, already expecting a bitchy answer.

“Oh, any time, really. I mean, we could rehearse all day and night. It won’t make a difference,” Jo replies in an annoyed tone as anticipated. “You of all people should know that.”

Y/N watches Jo leave, trying her hardest not to strangle her former friend. She gets it. She fucked up, but she still doesn’t agree with Jo. Would sleeping with Roman and sacrificing her dignity really have saved the show?

“Hey, everything alright?” Dean’s deep voice startles her. She was so preoccupied with killing Jo in her mind, she hasn’t even noticed the director sneak up on her. “I know Cas was a little intense today. Never seen the guy this riled up before. It’s like a puppy getting rabies.”

Y/N forces a chuckle from her throat and brushes him off. “Oh, uhm, yeah, wasn’t so bad. I get it.”

Dean’s brow creases, sensing something is off with her. Shit. She does not want the director to find out about what happened.

“You’re not mad at me, right? I know I’ve been a bit MIA the last few days. It’s just been crazy with everything going on,” he explains sincerely and shoots her a soft smile. “I meant to call you or at least talk to you. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah, no, like I said, I get it, Dean. Don’t worry about me, okay?” she assures him and compels another smile to her face before her curiosity takes over. “Did Roman really say our moves weren’t good enough?”

Her hope comes flooding back. Maybe it truly wasn’t her fault. Maybe the guy hits on so many actresses on a weekly basis that he doesn’t even care if one rejects him. Maybe it’s just all in her goddamn head, and it was just bad luck all around.

Dean shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, he didn’t say it exactly like that, but you girls are amazing. He’s gonna change his mind, and you’ll be back in your old slot in no time,” he promises her hopefully.

“Yeah, I guess so…” Fuck. It’s definitely about her.

“You sure you’re okay?” Dean checks again, noticing her absentminded behavior. Y/N’s usually chipper, eager, talkative, and hard to keep contained. She’s a warrior. The woman in front of him right now is the complete opposite, however. He almost doesn’t recognize her, and it worries him a little.

Is it him? Did he break her?

“Uh-huh, yeah, just tired, you know? Billie’s been riding us pretty hard this week,” Y/N excuses her strange mood with a half-truth, and Dean seems to buy it.

“Yeah, I bet.” He nods understandingly, chuckling. “Well, uhm, I’ve got some free time tonight. You wanna come over for dinner and I don’t know maybe… stay? You could ride me pretty hard, too,” he suggests, making her snort. “Admittedly, that sounded better in my head. Sorry.”

“No, uhm, I’d love to,” she replies honestly, giggling at his bashfulness. “But I’m pretty beat. Probably gonna fall into bed around seven like a dead person. Raincheck?”

Truthfully, there’s nothing she’d rather do than spend her nights (and days) with Dean, but the guilt in her belly is eating her alive. She can barely look him in the eyes. As of right now, though, she can see even more disappointment shimmering in his green orbs.

“Sure, yeah. Open invitation, sweetheart,” he says and acts as if her rejection doesn’t bother him. “But still, if all you wanna do is sleep, then you’re welcome to do that at my place as well. I do have the better mattress than the motel. Maybe a good night’s rest and a hot bath is all you need to recover, you know?”

Hot bath. The words make her skin crawl and take her right back to that horrible night where it all went wrong. How could she have been so stupid?

Y/N swallows the lump in her throat and fights for words. “Oh, uhm… I don’t, uh…”

“Hey, it’s okay, alright? No explanation needed, sweetheart,” Dean says and lets her off the hook. “Just wanted to offer, you know?”

“Thanks, another time.” Y/N forces one last smile to her lips.

Dean hasn’t seen Y/N in a whole week. Well, that’s not entirely true. He sees her every day at training in the gym, rolling around with Jo in the ring. But he hasn’t seen her privately since their little naughty stint in his office.

By now, he’s sure she’s avoiding him for some reason, but he doesn’t have the guts nor the balls to ask her straight. He’s too afraid of her answer, scared she has changed her mind about them and their arrangement. He’d accept it, of course, but he still doesn’t want to find out if that’s the reason why she keeps her distance. It would most certainly break his heart.

A knock on his office door makes his head snap up with hope that it’s Y/N. Either she’s here for another booty call or to end it. He’s prepared for both. To his surprise, though, it’s Donna who’s stopping by for a visit.

“Dean? Can we talk?” the curvy blonde asks insecurely, concern etched into every crease of her face.

“Sure, uh, what’s up?” Dean knows Donna and Billie have given their all to train the girls over the last few weeks, and if production could afford it, he’d give them both a gigantic raise. Unfortunately, he can’t but hopes it’s the thought that still counts.

“It’s about Y/N and Jo,” she informs him, and his ears perk up at that.

He’s noticed some tension between those two as well, so he’s not as surprised as he should have been. But honestly, sometimes it’s hard to tell what those two are fighting about. If it’s something new or just the same old beef.

“Usually, they do a good job of keeping their weird friendship stuff out of the ring, but not in the last week. There’s something wrong with them,” Donna tells him.

No shit, Dean thinks. Those two having issues is not an entirely new thing.

“What d’you want me to do about it?” Dean asks. He knows Donna didn’t just stroll into his office to chat and gossip. She’s looking for direction. Like the rest of these women downstairs, the blonde expects him to solve their problems. In the end, that’s his job.

“Postpone the match,” Donna prompts, the worry deepening. “I don’t think they should fight. They’re not communicating properly. Someone’s gonna get hurt.”

Dean tries not laugh, but in reality, it’s just fucking funny. Do these women ever think things through? Y/N and Jo’s match is the main storyline, the two of them being the best fighters as well. If they’re not entering the ring, he might as well just throw in the towel now and quit. The show would never make it back on air.

“Donna, I can’t do that,” he tells her frustratedly and runs a palm over his face. “C’mon, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like they’re gonna kill each other.”

“Dean–” Donna is about to interject when he stops her.

“Fine, all right? I’ll talk to her,” the director assures the blonde.

Donna’s brow shoots up. “Her?”

“Them. I’ll talk to them,” Dean corrects quickly and watches her leave his office, clearly dissatisfied with his solution.

Dean hates West Hollywood like a mouse hates a cat. He can’t believe he fucking agreed to this thing in the first place. And the only reason he did agree was his stupid daughter, who’s not even here tonight because she’d rather spend time with her boyfriend than with her dad.

Fucking teenagers…

Honestly, Dean’s got no clue why he still came here without Claire. Maybe because he’s old-school and actually keeps his commitments, or maybe it’s because he’s got nothing better to do since neither his kid nor his not-girlfriend want to spend time with him. So, it was either getting drunk at home alone like he always does or do this.

As Dean enters the dark theater, he notices not a lot of seats are taken. Surprise, surprise! No one cares about him or his movies…

There’s a group of teenagers in the front row, though, who seem to be way to young to watch one of his films. But who is he to judge? He’s not their fucking parent. God knows he’s got his hands full with one teenager already.

He’s about to take a seat somewhere in the back when his green eyes spy a familiar head of hair. His heart skips a beat when he recognizes his favorite actress. Out of all the places in all the world, he’d never thought he’d meet her here.

“Hey,” he says as soon as he’s made it to her row. Her head darts up, but she doesn’t seem too surprised to see him here, which makes this coincidence even weirder. He assumed she strolled by this theater by accident and saw one of his movies was showing, deciding to check it out, which just so happens to flatter him and stroke his ego perfectly fine. “What are you doing here?”

Dammit. That sounded way too aggressive. He’s honestly happy she’s here; he just hasn’t expected it. Call it a ‘pleasant surprise.’

“Oh, uh, Claire invited me,” Y/N explains and gulps nervously. “But I can leave if you don’t want me here.”

Damn that kid. Of course, she meddled in his affair. Does she know he likes Y/N? Is it that obvious? Well, either way, someone’s getting a bigger allowance this week. Doesn’t he have the best kid?

“No, uh, stay. Please,” he says and sends Y/N his best smile. “Can I sit with you?”

Her face lights up. “Sure.”

Dean sits down on a red velvet seat next to her and feels like a goddamn teenager on a first date. His knees are shaking as he anxiously taps his boots on the sticky movie floor and drums his palms repeatedly on his thighs. Something inside of him urges him to hold her hand and interlace their fingers, or do one of those moves where he yawns and slings his arm around her shoulders.

In fact, he can barely concentrate on the movie until he takes her hand in his. But who cares? He wrote and directed this masterpiece, so it’s not like he’s missing out on anything important. He already knows the plot and every single shot.

Once their fingers touch, his heartbeat accelerates to light speed. She shoots him a look and raises her brow with a teasing smirk. He can catch it from his periphery but doesn’t dare to look straight at her. Instead, he awkwardly clears his throat and glues his green eyes stubbornly to the silver screen, pretending it’s not a big deal.

When did holding hands become such a fucking thrill? He’s not goddamn sixteen anymore, for crying out loud.

Y/N takes note of his uncomfortableness and focuses back on the movie but still gives his hand a small squeeze, telling him everything is all right. They remain exactly like this till the end credits roll across the screen.

And then, to his greatest surprise, there are cheers and claps from everyone in the theater. Y/N lets go of his hand to clap as well and bites her lip to hide a smile once she sees him blush furiously at the attention and admiration.

The group of teenagers then approaches him and stops by his row as a young, scrawny boy speaks up, “You’re a genius, Mr. Winchester.”

Mister?! How old do they think he is? Well, granted, he probably shot that movie before those kids were even born. Talk about feeling old.

“Your disorientation factor is truly masterful,” the boy continues. “Claire told us we’d love it.”

His brow shoots up in surprise. “Claire? How do you know my kid?”

“Oh, we’re all in AV club together,” the boy replies and gestures to his peers before they filter out of the theater.

“Huh.” Dean is gobsmacked, truly. For one, he didn’t even know Claire was in AV club. And secondly, he’s goddamn proud of her. Who knew the kid would take after her old man?

“See?” Y/N pokes his arm with her elbow, a big grin adorning her face. “You have a whole fan club of teenagers who adore your movie that they are, for sure, too young to see.”

Dean chuckles softly and wishes he could hide his reddening cheeks from her.

“I liked your movie, too,” she says then and watches his reaction closely.

“Oh, c’mon,” Dean tries to brush her off. She’s probably just saying it to appeal to his ego. He knows she’s not the biggest fan of his work. “Really?”

“Yeah!” Y/N says enthusiastically. “Those kids were right. It was disorienting. You were doing your own thing.” But then she catches her mistake and corrects herself, “Are. Sorry! You still are doing–”

Dean, however, shakes his head at her correction. “Nope, you’re right,” he admits and scoffs. “That was me twenty years ago. My hands all over everything like the biggest control freak, driving everybody nuts. I mean, my operator actually became so frustrated with me that he quit the first day and threw his camera at me. I had to shoot the rest of it myself.”

“You shot that?” Y/N’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Wow.”

“Yeah, I did.” Dean sighs and pensively scratches his beard. Something’s been bothering him for a while now, and talking to Y/N usually helps him sort through his jumbled thoughts. After all, she’s his Alma. “You know, I’m accustomed to a certain level of failure. When a project usually goes wrong, I know exactly what happened. It’s just-… with our show… I have no idea what went wrong there. I don’t know why they shit-canned us. Not a fucking clue. None. It’s driving me insane.”

Y/N grows quiet next to him and fumbles with her fingers. She swallows deeply before she opens her mouth. “I have an idea. I know why,” she confesses.

The director’s brow furrows. As he looks at her, he recognizes her nervousness. It causes him to worry. “What d’you mean?”

“Richard Roman, the head of the network? He-, uhm, he invited me to dinner… at his hotel room,” Y/N begins, the uncomfortableness growing inside of her and expanding in her chest.

Dean, on the other hand, stays perfectly still and quiet. The calm before the storm, so to speak. Because as soon as she said those words, he could feel his heart stop and drop several feet into the depths of hell. There, he’s sure he’ll find some kind of weapon he can use to kill that motherfucker before he comes back topside. The director knows how that story ends before she has even finished it, and it makes him want to puke his guts out and burn this godforsaken city down.

“He came on to me. As in… he wanted to have sex with me,” Y/N continues and clarifies in case he didn’t catch on. She’s not entirely sure the director is getting the message since he hasn’t said a word yet. “But I left before anything could happen. Ran away, actually. Bolted right outta there.” Her little chuckle at the end is a futile attempt to lighten the mood.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Dean’s furious, his nostrils flaring. He wants to punch and kill someone, but most of all Dickhead Roman himself.

“No, I’m not,” Y/N replies meekly. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Bewildered, he frowns. “Mad?” That’s when he notices that she suddenly seems scared. Is she frightened… of him?!

“Maybe I can still fix it. Just call him and ask him if I can come by his office,” Y/N suggests, her voice laced with desperation. But not the good kind that usually turns him on. This time it’s just plain sad.

“To do what exactly?” Dean prompts grimly, already knowing her intentions. Over his dead body is she doing that!

“Well–”

“Fuck no!” Dean doesn’t even allow her to finish her sentence. In fact, he doesn’t want to hear it at all, or he might have to scratch his ears out afterward. God, he doesn’t even want to think about it. “You’re not fucking doing anything, alright?”

“But–”

“That stupid fucking son of a bitch,” Dean huffs and shakes his head. “What a goddamn prick!”

“So you’re not mad?” Y/N checks insecurely.

For a moment, Dean stops his rage to look at her, his heart almost breaking as he does. She deserves so much better in this life than all the shit she’s getting. How the fuck is any of this fair?

“At Dick cocksucking Roman, yeah. But not at you. Never at you, okay?” he emphasizes and sees her nod in relief. His heart shatters anew. How could she even think for a second he’d hold some sleazebag’s actions against her? But then his suspicions grow as he puzzles the pieces together. “When the fuck did this happen?”

“Uh, a little over a week ago,” Y/N answers quietly. “The night before they moved us to the nighttime slot.”

“That’s when you came to my office, and we–” Dean doesn’t finish his train of thought and cards a hand through his messy hair. Now, it makes sense. Her strange behavior, the inexplicable need for punishment, and everything in between.

‘You’re the best guy I know,’ he remembers her words. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d want this with more.’

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Was that why you were avoiding me?”

A part of him feels unbelievably relieved. It’s not him but literally someone else’s fault. For once, he’s done nothing wrong. For once, he hasn’t ruined everything. But another part of him, the bigger one, just wants to rip Dickbag Roman’s throat out with his goddamn teeth. What a pathetic fucking loser…

Dean wishes he could beat the guy black and blue and leave him bleeding on the highway till a truck runs over him. He wishes he could cut off that guy’s dick and put it through a meat grinder. His mind can’t stop imagining the most gruesome ways to make that asshat suffer and die. In fact, he wishes Manson was still roaming Spawn Ranch and would send his Family over to that Roman’s mansion and leave Sharon Tate the fuck alone.

“I’m sorry. I guess I was scared you’d react like Jo.” Y/N gulps and averts her eyes to her trembling hands in her lap.

His brow knits, Donna’s warning words echoing through his mind. “Jo knows? What did she say?” But before Y/N can answer him, the director stops her again. “No, wait… I can take a fucking guess,” he mutters bitterly. The blonde bimbo probably told her to blow the guy in his goddamn office. Typical…

“Well, she’s not entirely wrong, you know,” Y/N mumbles and bites down on her lip without looking at him.

“What d’you mean?”

“All I’m good for is a fuck,” she says with a wry smile and wipes away a small tear. Dean’s heart twinges and hurts for her, but that pain is nothing compared to the cool blade of a knife he feels soon instead. “I mean, you of all people know that…”

Dean’s quiet for a moment and bites his nails as he ponders. His mind is a maze, and he knows he has to pick and choose his words carefully in order to get out of it.

“No, I actually don’t know that,” he states and catches her attention.

He tries his best not to sound angry or offended, even though he is a little. Hasn’t he been building her confidence for weeks now? Hasn’t he been instilling in her that she’s his favorite – and not just among the cast but on this planet in general? He figured she knew how much she truly means to him, but maybe he hasn’t been clear enough yet. He knows Y/N’s self-worth issues could fill every damn swimming pool in California, so maybe he shouldn’t expect a miracle so soon.

Mostly, he’s angry at Dicksuck Roman and Barbie for ruining all his hard work with one asshole move and a few bitchy words.

Dean wets his lips and lets out a sharp exhale through his nose before he looks at her. “Y/N, you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met in my entire life. You’re never just a quickie in the office to me. Do you understand that?”

She nods in slow reluctance. “I think so.”

“Good,” he says sternly. “Now believe it ‘cause it’s true.”

The green-eyed director cups her cheeks and pulls her to his lips, tongue meeting tongue in a searing kiss. The old seats creak when their weight shifts, Y/N leaning into his touch as she wrings for oxygen with heavy breaths. And where words fail, he tries his best to show her how he feels through his actions.

“Sorry,” Dean apologizes cheekily once he lets her get some air. “Couldn’t hold myself back any longer. That’s okay, right? We’re still on?”

Suddenly, it dawns on him that she might’ve still changed her mind about him. Has he just sexually harassed a woman right after she told him how she’s been sexually harassed by a superior? Jesus fucking Christ, he’s goddamn tone deaf, isn’t he?

To his luck, though, Y/N finds his stupidity amusing and giggles, placing another sweet kiss on his plump lips as she shakes her head. “We’re still on, boss,” she assures him and hears him heave a big sigh of relief.

“Awesome.” He grins from ear to ear and brushes a strand of rogue hair out of her face. “Are you and Jo okay? ‘Cause if you’re not, you gotta tell me. You wanna postpone the match?”

Now that Dean knows there’s no chance in hell the network’s going to let the show survive, he doesn’t even give a shit if the girls resort to doing the chicken dance in the ring or taking a dump on stage. No one truly gives a fuck anymore, least of all him. He never has.

The only thing he cares about is sitting right next to him.

Y/N, however, vehemently shakes her head. “No, we’re fine. I wanna fight. ‘Sides, I’m supposed to win this match, and I can’t wait to kick Jo’s bitchy ass.” She grins broadly.

“That’s my bad girl.” Dean smirks and pecks her lips. “You’re gonna stay over at my place tonight? Play a little Cold War in my bedroom?”

“Only if I can do my accent,” Y/N says, beaming.

The director playfully rolls his green eyes, even though he’s direly been waiting for that sort of role play. “Oh, you’ve got yourself a deal, Natasha.”

22. Girls, Girls, Girls

Hope you enjoyed this one! We came back with a literal bang 😂 Next up we deal with more drama and a hospital stay 👀

Don't forget I re-did the tag lists after the break, so pick your new place (everything, specific character, or series) and put your username in there ❤️

TAGS:

Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey @deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies @agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28 @mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33

Old Series Tags (only for this part): @jessjad @mrsjenniferwinchester @smellingofpoetry @justrealizedimmascifygurl @leigh70 @4getfulimaginator2022 @yeahmynameiscool06 @luci-wiggles @darkened-writer @mimaria420 @samanddeansannoyingsis @sarasolros

#plastic hearts #dean winchester #director!dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x female reader #actress!reader #dean winchester au #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfic #director!dean winchester x actress!reader #glow au #supernatural au #supernatural fanfic #supernatural

90 notes · View notes

thisapplepielife · 4 months

Text

Written for the @steddiemicrofic January challenge.

Hole in Me

January Prompt: Hole | Word Count: 404 | Rating: E | CW: 18+ Only, Light Dom/Sub Dynamics, Unprotected Sex | Tags: Established Relationship, Foreplay, Smutty Teasing, Top Eddie Munson, Bottom Steve Harrington

this hole in me, it's just about the size of you Steve Carlson, Hole in Me

Steve stretches, feeling Eddie's firm hand on his back. It's a fixed pressure that Steve bends under. Never breaking, just relenting. Accepting. As soon as Eddie puts his hands on Steve's bare skin, Steve knows that the best of him belongs to Eddie. He's turned himself over to Eddie, without hesitation.

It's not something Steve had ever anticipated enjoying, or expected to yearn for, but that willing forfeiture of control makes him feel calm. And loved. Taken care of, in a way he's never felt before.

It's not rough, not harsh. It's just firm, and steady. Unwavering.

Eddie pressing his rough fingers into Steve's back, and Steve keens under the ten points of pressure, sure he'll have fingertip-shaped bruises tomorrow.

"Color?" Eddie asks.

"Green," Steve answers, "neon fucking green."

Eddie laughs, and Steve knows Eddie's in charge, but he's not controlling him. Steve feels powerful, even with Eddie handling him this way. Steve thinks it's supposed to be the other way around, but Eddie has said, repeatedly, that he still wants Steve to be Steve under his hands, and that's something Steve has no issue with. He's not sure he'd be great at submitting in any sort of traditional sense anyway. He's too mouthy.

Eddie drags his fingers down Steve's sides, and it's far too firm to be ticklish. Sliding over his hips, his ass, before wedging his knee between Steve's thighs, urging them to open up further.

Steve does, spreading. He'll do anything for Eddie.

He feels Eddie's thumb press against his hole, and Steve grinds down into the bed. Eddie's already spent an hour licking into him, fingering him open, in firm, demanding strokes. Steve's ready. He's open.

He's so open.

"There's a hole in me, just about the size of you," Steve teases, and he's greeted with the sound of Eddie laughing. The loving, deep rumble that sounds like home.

"Well, those are words you've just said," Eddie teases back, but he shoves two fingers inside Steve, and fuck, yes, that. All of that. Now.

Steve grinds back onto Eddie's hand. If Eddie's not gonna fuck him, he'll fuck himself.

Eddie grips his hip with his free hand, slowing his movements.

"Easy," Eddie says, and Steve gradually stills to a stop.

He's rewarded when he does. He feels the blunt head of Eddie's cock finally, fucking finally, pressing inside. A long, perfect slide.

Steve was right.

Just the right size, indeed.

I have a filthy mind and this was the perfect opportunity to do something with this song that I've always heard as so fucking dirty.

It's dirty, right? Right?? Bueller?

And I just as well get my Spotify stats good and fucked by writing fic with a song on a loop on day one of the new year. 🤣

#steddiemicrofic #steddiemicroficjanuary #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddiemicrofic #Spotify

102 notes · View notes

tj-dragonblade · 5 months

Note

hello hello, how about #6 for the spotify wrapped 👀

6 - Arwen's Vigil by The Piano Guys This is an instrumental piece evoking steadfast hope and sweeping passions, and I think it calls for a Knight!Hob AU. Visually, Hob will be a tidied-up version of 1389 and Dream will have Tom's Hollow Crown look.

(Synopsis bled into scene-drafting oops)

Dream, the ruler of wherever, has sent his best men on a dangerous quest of some sort. Including his unspoken favorite, his most faithful, the man who holds his heart, the man who will never know it. Dream cannot abuse his station; he is the king; Hob is his knight. They cannot be together. But nothing can stop him holding vigil each night as he waits for news, his thoughts circling on Hob, praying for his safe return.

The news when it comes is bittersweet; the quest was successful but at great price. Only three of the ten men remain to return home; the message does not tell who. Dream paces endlessly, frets endlessly, heart perpetually in his throat as he grapples with the not-knowing, the fear that his Hob has perished.

When the men return they are only two; the third fell to bandits on the road and the second is gravely injured. The first, Dream sees with a relief that threatens to overwhelm him, is his Hob.

The injured man is seen to, rushed to the medics; Hob is tired and dirty but unharmed, and Dream calls for a bath to be drawn in his private quarters. He will tend to Hob himself, with the viable excuse of debriefing him re: the quest.

So before long we wind up with Hob dozing quietly in the warm bath in Dream's quarters, Dream watching over him, letting him doze and making sure he doesn't slip underwater, keeping the fire roaring, etc. Ooh, ooh, there should be a hair washing scene first, Dream washing Hob's chest and shoulders and beard for him, gentle and intimate and Hob protesting his king serving him this way and Dream shushing him with something like 'My noble steadfast Hob, my most loyal and enduring friend (dangerous, so daring to admit aloud he considers him thus), let me take care of you for once' and so Hob quiets, and lets him, and Dream moves on to the proper hair washing and by the time he's finished Hob is drifting asleep.

So Dream lets him sleep, keeps watch, tends the fire etc, and after a bit he's sitting on a chair by the tub lost in thought when there's a wet touch to his hand and he looks up to find Hob's warm brown eyes fixed steadfastly on him.

"My liege," Hob says softly, gaze unwavering, and brings Dream's hand to his lips, lets them graze over the knuckles.

Dream sucks in a breath, shaken, filled with such ardent longing that he fears to speak, lest he give himself away. But Hob is still speaking.

"I have faced death many times, but none more certainly than this last."

"Hob—"

"And I'm alright with that." He sits up, leans forward, still holding Dream's hand. "I will go where you send me; I will serve you to my last breath and die gladly if it means you're safe. But having faced that possibility so starkly—" he turns Dream's hand, presses his lips soft to the cup of Dream's palm "—I have realized. There are things I do not wish to take to my grave." He arches Dream's hand back gently, places a softly-heartfelt kiss to the inside of his wrist, lifts his eyes back to Dream's.

"My lord Dream. It is not simply my sword and my service which are pledged to you, but my heart as well."

Dream cannot help the gasp that escapes him; neither can he manage words, which is just as well as Hob is still speaking.

"I know we can never be, and I do not expect any return of my feelings. I am happy to love you silently from afar, as I always have. This—" his lips brush the pulse beating furiously in Dream's wrist "—is more than enough, your care and consideration of me here, they are more than enough. If I am to die in some future endeavor, then I will die at peace knowing you are aware that you were loved by me. And that is enough."

"You dare." Dream finds his voice at last, though it trembles terribly. "You. Dare. To speak so carelessly of dying, when I have spent days sick with worry of your welfare, when I have not slept for fear I had lost you this time, when I have only just had those fears assuaged by your return—"

Hob is quite taken aback, but still he holds Dream's hand. "My liege—"

"Dream." The tremor in his voice matches the wavering of tears filling his vision, the way his fingers tremble in Hob's gentle hold. "You will call me Dream when it is only you and I, and you will not greet death so cavalierly should it come for you. You will exercise every caution, you will fight with your all to return to me, for I could not bear to lose you, not now, when you tell me that the heart I so long for is pledged to me in truth, I could not bear it—"

He is cut off by the soft touch of Hob's fingers to his lips, wet and wrinkled from the bath water, beseeching his silence. He meets Hob's eyes, tears spilling over soundlessly, and finds Hob's gaze wide, wondering, warm and hopeful and dark enough to drown in; when Hob's fingertips move gently from his lips to touch his tears, to reverently stroke a single droplet away, Dream shivers. And when Hob releases his hand, moves closer, when both of Hob's hands are gently framing his face, when Hob is gazing up at him with naked adoration, Dream knows he is lost. He does not fight the way Hob leans up and draws him down; he cannot fight his own desires any longer and he cannot deny this man any wish.

The kiss is tentative, soft, Hob's lips sliding across his, between, pressing gently until Dream gasps—

And Hob draws back, eyes searching Dream's, seeking permission, confirmation that his forwardness is welcome, and Dream can think of no better assurance than to kiss him again.

He lunges forward, mouth finding Hob's unerringly, and it is Hob this time who gasps, whereupon Dream brings his tongue into the kiss and then Hob moans. Dream touches him, as he has longed to do for years, strokes through his wet beard and wet hair, touches the wet curves of his shoulders and the glorious mat of wet hair on his chest, heedless of the drag of his own sleeves in the bathwater.

"My lord Dream—" Hob barely pulls away, lips brushing Dream's as he speaks.

"Not here," Dream interrupts. "Never here, think me not your lord when we are alone, I beg—let me be just a man, let me be but the one who would hold your heart dear and trust that you hold mine the same—"

"Dream," Hob says then, tremulous, wondering, and the blossoming familiarity of Dream's unadorned name on Hob's lips has him swooning back into a kiss.

It quickly grows desperately impassioned, fierce and frantic as emotions rise and inhibitions fall in their wake. Hob flounders about in the tub and stands, bringing Dream up with him, pulling Dream to him and picking him up, cradling Dream bridal-style as he steps out of the tub, naked and streaming wet and still kissing his king. Dream clings around his neck, lost in the ardent warmth of Hob's mouth, uncaring of how Hob's wet hirsute body makes an absolute ruin of his clothing.

He will not be wearing it much longer, regardless.

So I guess this will be going in the wip pile but there is no telling if or when I'll get back to it. The rest will just be smut; Hob carries Dream over to the furs spread on the stone floor in front of the fire, lays him down, strips him bare of his wet robes with reverence, tenderly fingers him open and then makes love to him over and over, ardent and adoring and attentive until tears of joy and pleasure are streaming from Dream's eyes, until his heart and body sing with the love Hob bears him, the love he bears Hob in turn. Or something equally purple-prosed and sappy. This will be smut to rot your teeth on I assure you.

Inevitably this art and the third one here ended up rotating in my mind even if they don't quite apply to what I scribbled down - they convey the same kind of mood.

Spotify Wrapped Askmeme Post

#Thank you Vi ❤️#askmemes #TJs Fics #of a sort #SpotifyWrapped asks #Dreamling #Sandman

132 notes · View notes

meat-wentz · 1 year

Text

FOB LORE POST Pt. 2

this one is mainly links, plus resources at the end for more in depth dives.

some cool pre-fob/outside fob links:

arma angelus livejournal

where sleeplessness is rest from nightmares (arma album playlist, heychris is working at the moment to get these on spotify)

the grave end of the shovel (arma EP)

last arma show

first novena show (pre-arma arma angelus)

racetraitor "broken dust" ft. a young pete and a young andy

another one

racetraitor 2019

racetraitor 2022

interview with mani mostofi 2018

now some general lore, i'll bold the ones that are referenced most often:

"The Story" 2004 (from My Heart Will Always Be the B-Side to My Tongue dvd)

"Cutting Room Floor" (LOTS of classic moments in this, joe sleeping in a cage, patrick drinking garlic butter, dunking his head in a pool, getting nervous and shaking pete's hand, etc)

extra bits sorry this literally opens with a dirty toilet

the story behind the album cover (patrick, joe and pete all lived in a shitty apartment together, where the cover of tttyg was shot on their broken couch, i promise this link is so much more informative these are just the basics)

take this to your apartment pt. 1 (fall out boy return to the apartment)

take this to your apartment pt. 2

a little reflection on the van accident

notes between patrick and joe (resolution by pete)

patrick in high school

first interview

HALLOWEEN 2003 (THE PRIEST SHOW)

the hollister show (includes pete jumping off the roof with an umbrella, van tour, andy "what's goin' on guys" which is important TO ME)

2003 acoustic set (IMPORTANT TO ME)

the hollister show pt. 2 (the show, which is fucking insane, sweater, shorts and black socks mention, borders mention, patrick drinking half a bottle of tobasco, pete getting tazed, first ??? mention of jason which will be expanded upon later)

i'm not putting release the bats lmao that's your job, warning it's gross, it's a will-tester for sure.

but you do get bedussey, it's like, on the syllabus. there will be a test.

FOBR bio during futct

the jason interview

patrick and pete interview for the documentary bastards of young (2005)

behind the scenes AOL

TRL debut

nintendo ds makes me forget that i don't have any friends

mtv vma performance of sugar (iconic because of the uniforms)

mtv2 video awards arrival

mtv2 win

warped diary (fob did warped in a fucking van, which is hardcore af)

behind the scenes sugar we're going down

behind the scenes dance dance

behind the scenes a little less 16 candles

fuse rock star guide (IMPORTANT TO ME)

you look good in everything honey

behind the scenes live in phoenix

don't google yourself

you look like the unabomber

wind power

fall out boy gets uncomfortable

pete's do's and don'ts for valentine's day

moustachette

world's most in depth interview

gabe bothering patrick with socks and sandals

piss roulette

IMPORTANT PATRICK VIDEO TO ME (black clouds and underdogs tour)

gay above the belt

it's not a hot girl

the backpack

mark hoppus shaves pete's head (death of emo)

drum battle and this view of patrick

andy drum solo (live in phoenix)

thanks pete

boys of zummer

happy paintings

coffee's for closers dance

YBC commentary by patrick and pete

family feud

just a few reading extras because i'm tired and i've worked on this for so long i'm going crosseyed:

pete/patrick huge primer

interviews

what a catch donnie songfacts page

in defense of folie a deux

(btw patrick does a different song every intro for i hate myself, also it's very healing please listen to all 6 episodes)

Loud and Sad Radio (pete podcast)

@stumpomatic-blog and @fobomatic-blog are both archival projects to document the band

here's a giant video vault

peachy.stump on instagram, invaluable resource for updates, throwbacks and all the little tidbits you could want.

#fob lore post #fall out boy #fall out boy history #fall out boy lore #fob lore #fob history #patrick stump #andy hurley #joe trohman #pete wentz #patrick #andy #joe #pete #Spotify

422 notes · View notes

clydesavage-thefox147 · 2 months

Text

CW//Suggestive Content?

I don't think we realize just how dirty Janus' Spotify Playlist is. We've overlooked it so much. In this little analysis post, I wanna point out the handful of songs that show the sluttiness behind the Snake-Man because damn this playlist shows he can't keep it in his pants. You thought Remus is dirty..you haven't seen Janus...

First is "I put a spell on you" By Nina Simone. This song is believed to be about the poisonous and hypnotic throws of love. The dedication and devotion of love. Specifically a jealous love. Of wanting someone who doesn't want you. I'm not exactly sure who this could be directed to. It could be directed at Roman but I think there's another song that hints to that. Could be Virgil but again, there's another song that could be that as well. Overall a sexy song regardless, come on, it has the word Daddy in it ffs.

Second is "Evil Night Together" by Jill Tracy. This song is believed to be about seduction in the darkness of life. The art of manipulation through allure and enticement. Feeling of intimacy beyond ordinary and the unknowns of seduction. Embracing darker parts of yourself instead of holding back. This song to me seems directed at Roman and what Janus did during SvS. Enticing him with the happiness of the callback and the positive praise he's always wanted. Keeping Roman on a leash of temptation for the betterment and self-desire of Thomas achieving his goals and dreams. With lines like "Who's gonna make you a hero?" It only just further shows that.

Third is "Cabaret: Don't Tell Mama" from Cabaret, which features Liza Minnelli. This song is about a young women who has an active nightlife working as a nightclub erotic dancer and performer. She doesn't want her conservative mother finding out about her exploits so she pleads for no one to snitch. It's interesting here because Liza Minnelli is in this and Roman wanted Liza as a wedding performer..and Liza wears an outfit very similar to something Janus would wear...I think you see what I'm going for here.

Fourth is "You're a Cad" by The Bird and the Bee. This song is believed to be about a woman falling for a man, knowing he has a bad reputation. She knows this man wants to be better but she doesn't see a point in him doing so since it's never enough. Even hinting that she could be worse than him, making them perfect for one another and partners in their chaos. She taunts and teases him "Tug at your line" , "Wait by the phone", "You're reckless with my heart" all lines alluding to the fact of attraction. She could and would waste her life on someone she knows is bad for her, she doesn't care. This song is 100% directed at Virgil. With lines like "So now you want the whole world to notice that you've come around, now you expect we'll see how you're really so much better now" and "What's the point pretending that you could be a better man? Just give in since you always end up right back where you began" all hint to Janus being aware of Virgil's departure from the Dark Sides and his attempts to be better and change but he knows Virgil will always fail. Virgil in response with "Ignorance" on his own playlist shows that he thinks Janus is blind to his change. But yeah, very "loving" song towards Virge dontcha think?

And fifth and finally is "Criminal" by Fiona Apple. This song is believed to be about a woman who used her sexuality to exploit and manipulate a man. She feels regret for doing so even if it's what she had to do. This song is basically the musical equivalent of saying "I've been a naughty boy, punish me". Another song seemingly directed Roman. Showing Janus does feel bad for doing what he did to Roman despite it being for the greater good. He knew Roman was sensitive and insecure but that's how he knew to get to him for a betterment. Yes, he knew it was shitty but it had to be done. It also hints to still lingering feelings. Like "oh I'm so bad to you, a villain you say, well why don't you punish me since you like that" You could say it's also directed at Patton with a line like "I've been careless with a delicate man" but that could be Roman or Patton honestly.

So with all of that said, it seems Janus is quite the whore. I mean 2 songs directed Roman in a provocative manner. And 1 song directed Virgil. And just the overall seduction and temptation of these songs shows his slutty nature. Snakes are even common symbols for sexuality. This snake man knows how to play his deck and dick right...or dicks if you believe that lol

#sanders sides #sanders sides fandom #thomas sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #janus sanders #fanders #not safe for sanders

38 notes · View notes

oncasette · 2 years

Note

mav, i KNOW i just reblogged your rooster fic but i just need to share this thought with you. rooster and reader recreating dirty dancing’s “love is strange” scene and getting interrupted by maverick or something 😶‍🌫️

this thought will never leave my brain now

— your goose <3

GOOSE you have never been more right. ever. here’s more husband! rooster because i’m a simp. this is not read over because we die like men here.

this happens when you’ve first moved into your new place and your living room is completely empty because maverick is still on the way with the moving truck. the only things occupying the space are what you could fit in the trunk and backseat of bradley’s mom-car, i mean, mini-van.

you’re in the kitchen unpacking the single box of utensils you’d snagged from the moving truck—because bradley hadn’t even had a trickle of a thought of what you’d use to eat for the day it’d take you to get everything to your place and the inevitable month it took you to actually unbox everything—when you hear the distinct opening notes of “love is strange” emanating from the living room behind you. you can still hear bradley fiddling with something, so you vaguely assume he’s turned on the tv or his spotify or something.

and it’s quiet. for a while. just the delicate buzz of Mickey & Sylvia.

that is, at least, until you feel him plant his palms on your hips and spin you around.

“dance with me, baby,” he hums, digging his face into your neck to leave open-mouthed kisses there.

“we gotta unpack,” you say. you don’t mean to shove him, necessarily, but you definitely smack at his hands a little.

he gives you one of those whiny groans he always uses to try and make you feel guilty—they don’t work, by the way—as he meanders away only to slump down onto the floor at the edge of the open kitchen area.

he knows the lyrics. he knows them all, like he should since you make him watch dirty dancing at least once a month.

“sylvia,” he calls out from his spot on the floor.

god, he’s gonna force you to get on all fours and crawl to him, isn’t he? live out your dirty dancing daydreams.

“yes, mickey?”

this should not make you as hot and bothered as it does. as sexy as patrick swayze was, ten year old you swore no man would ever compare in this position. and here bradley was. making you out to be a liar.

“how do you call your lover boy?” it’s the sweats, you decide. and the messy bed-head.

“c’mere lover boy,” you whisper sing. you’re close enough to touch now, on your knees. you’ve jumped the gun, you know, baby doesn’t let johnny in this close for another line or two but bradley just looks so good.

“and if he doesn’t answer?” he’s adjusted to his knees as well, now, eye-level with you as he continues his little movie moment.

“oh, lover boy.”

foreheads touching, hands barely brushing against each other’s waists.

“and if he still doesn’t answer!”

“i simply say-“

the door decides it wants to open, in that moment, to reveal an entirely too pleased maverick with a large package at his feet and his phone being pulled out of his pocket.

“you know, for blackmail,” he says as he snaps a compromising picture or two to save for later.

tags— @zeldaknight @ridestomars

#rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw #top gun #top gun maverick #miles teller #miles teller x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw

589 notes · View notes

sinningtamer · 4 months

Note

Not sure if you’ve answered this before but what are your favourite fics and ships?

Love all your art btw! <3 Thx for all the food!

i might've years ago, so let's go again! i'm gonna answer this question as only NSFW/kink related, otherwise the list would be way too long haha

alright let's start with the obvious: ParviII is and always will be my #1 one ship, even when I dip in and out of the fandom a lot (i feel the term OTP is super outdated these days? but if there was one ship i could use it with it's them...)

so obviously i'm gonna say Talking Body and Payment and Payback by @sparxwrites. because. you know. how can i not. oh yeah, Good Vibrations is also a classic. hiii sparx, i'm sorry for picking your older fics, i just have such a bias. they've written a ton of great stuff over the years though, so go give the account a peak! there's something for everyone, especially if you like darker stuff.

...speaking of accounts with a lot of content who lurk around here, shoutout to @pawpunkao3. lmpᴇarI is one of my favorite ships, and they're still such a rarepair somehow?? anyways I think about Between Bedrock and a Hard Place at least once a week tbh. A New Religion That'll Bring You To Your Knees is fantastic, and i have a soft spot for I Spy (even tho i didn't watch too much empires). again, another author with a whole arsenal under their belt, so don't just take my word for it and check the rest of his fics!

back to lmpᴇarI being a rarepair... @thatstoomuchsoup has Chicken Soup for the Soulbounds (okay it's more pearI-centric but they're both there) and is another blog that specializes in some of my kinks and these fandoms. same with @anon-teddy's content, gotta give a shoutout to full. this is also making me realize i haven't sought out enough poly S0up Group or GᴇmpuIse/PᴇarIgem fics...maybe i'll get back to you on that...

there's a bunch of good explicit trᴇᴇbark fics, but i said i was gonna keep this list concise, so the only one i'll specifically point to is how to deal with your supernatural lust for blood (and other things) in a completely normal and god-honoring fashion. for...reasons. also because it's good!

edit: oh my GOD i realized two seconds after posting this i completely forget to mention @also-an-art. go read (this is) hungry work and honey don't feed it right fucking now. i've read both of these in full (pun intended) multiple times they're that amazing. it's rare that the plot is just as good as the horniness, when i tell you i lost my mind at some of the development in these. also hot and dirty (like the la air) is a guilty pleasure. AND it introduced me to a song that ended up being #20 on my spotify wrapped LOL (RPF warning on that one! trust me tho)

let's get to my other bias, shall we? RᴛSpiff and RᴛS00t don't....have any explicit fics. nor does poly lᴀds. CMRᴛ does, though! I'm kinda picky about how people characterize them, but play it cool and Every Stumble and Each Misfire are lovely (note that the second one is also blatant RPF! don't say i didn't warn you o7)

speaking of lᴀds, if you follow me on main, you know i got into Bᴀnᴀna Bᴜs Sqᴜᴀd just last year (I'M SORRY, OKAY, DON'T @ ME-) you'd think getting into an old fandom late would mean a ton of great smut fics, right? to be honest, i haven't found many that i care for, but maybe i'm just picky... however, i remember your lips, they're the ones i miss, and smoke in your lungs, your lips on mine are SO GODDAMN GOOD i'm not even mad it's only those two i like because i could reread them 20 times. god. such fun characterization. shame the author orphaned them because i badly wanna read more of their stuff.

this is the part where you go, spirit, do you read anything besides (mᴄ)yt fandoms??? and i go, not really.............well, sort of. i like 0verwatch! and M0icy!! Reciprocity is a delightful PWP long fic. i'm also not really an omegaverse guy, but Water Me has such a good take on it i fell in looove.

okay, i'm gonna cut myself off here, enough though i could probably name dozens of more fics if i sat and thought about it. if anyone i tagged wants to be untagged, feel free to reply here or shoot me an ask/dm!!

#i like how i said i was gonna keep this short and still went insane lmao #also dont forget to read the notes/cws of any fics i linked! it's up to you to decide if you're comfortable reading them

15 notes · View notes

ghost-proofbaby · 1 year

Text

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR THIRTEEN

in which eddie wants to distract you from the one thing you ask for: honesty. it's a shame he never realized just how dirty you can play when you want something bad enough.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, upside down does not exist, smut, female masturbation/male masturbation, exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), minors dni

→ wc: 3.2k+

→ a/n: probably the shortest chapter of the entire series. if i added anything else from what will be in hour 14, it would simply get too long. and this length felt good for what i was trying to accomplish! as always with my smut, my apologies if it ain't up to standard. i don't really edit my smut chapters haha. thank you all for being so kind and for all messages, reblogs, etc! <3

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

13:00 ────────ㅇ───────── 24:00

HOUR THIRTEEN - 4:00 AM

“Would you like me to be honest now, doll? Or would you rather me eat that poor pussy right here, right now, on this counter?”

Against your better judgment, your knees spread for him.

Honesty can wait, you realize, as his palms are warm against your skin. He’s slow in his descent, dropping to his knees on his kitchen floor at an antagonizing pace.

“Is that what you want? I was interrupted earlier, after all,” he murmurs, eyes locked with yours as he finally settles on the floor, hands cupping the back of your knees before tugging your hips to settle at the edge of the counter, “Use your words for me, sweetheart.”

No, we can’t settle a fight with sex. That is not becoming our new normal.

“Yes,” you breathe out, your mind in shambles as you look down at him on his knees for you. As if he’s prepared to worship. As if the two of you weren’t just arguing.

“Yes, what?”

He’s weaponizing himself against you now. Fingertips tickling down your calves, smiles lilting in a knowing grin. He knows that he has you right where he wants you right now. He knows just how desperate he can turn you.

“Yes, please,” you beg, giving into the desperation far too soon. But he only tsks in response, not fully accepting the plea despite the rashness that drips from your tone. And so you try again as his fingers return to your waist and plays with the band of the sweatpants you had just put back on, “I want you to eat my poor pussy right here, right now. On this counter. Please.”

He doesn’t expect the straight-forwardness, the crude words – you shock even yourself. You can see his upper-hand immediately falter as his breath catches in his chest and his hands curl unexpectedly into the bare skin beneath the clothing he was fiddling with.

He thinks he has you right where he wants you, but you know better. You’ve caught on quickly; he isn’t just doing this to distract you, but because he needs it just as much as you. This is not a weapon against just you in this argument, but himself as well. The distraction is a double-edged sword, and just as he was pressing it against your own skin in the form of a devilish grin and wandering hands, you decide to press it right back.

You go for the sternum as you whisper, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It’s a win-win for you, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he keeps his face stoney, but you can catch his blush rising underneath the fluorescent lighting.

In another daring move, you swat away his hands, and you remove the sweatpants.

Fuck Eddie. Fuck all the fights. Fuck letting him have all the control, all the fun.

“No? Allow me to explain,” your voice grows in volume and confidence simultaneously, and you relish the way his eyes have widened when met with your clothed core once more. He’s looking at it like it’s the first time, as if he hadn’t just had his way with you on his couch, you at his mercy fully. “I think you want to get your mouth on me even more than I want it. And if you get your way, you also get to avoid honesty. Again.”

Your mind somehow becomes sharper in the haze he’d originally caused. The look in his eyes only fuels you as you bring your hands to the edge of his sweater, toying with the hem and smirking at him.

“I see,” he hums, reaching out for you, eyes still glassy and distracted. You swat his hand away before it even gets the chance to reach your knee. In an instant, his gaze adverts from your pussy to look up to you, stunned with a dumb-struck expression, puffy lips parted as his mouth hangs open ever-so-slightly, “That sounds like a win for me and for you. I’m not seeing the issue here, doll.”

“The issue is you avoiding honesty, Munson,” you scoff. You finally lean forward, pulling his sweatshirt off of you. You toss it to the ground beside where he kneels, now wearing nothing but your panties and the shit-eating grin that would usually belong to him, “I’d like to propose a deal.”

He’s easy to turn dumb. Too easy. The moment your breasts are exposed, the man before you is nearly drooling, eyes darting from them to your core, rinse and repeat, as if he can’t decide what to focus on. Anywhere but your eyes. Anywhere but your smug expression.

You have the upperhand.

“Look at me,” you demand. Your voice doesn’t hold the same strength as his would – that’s not your forte. Your forte is in the softness you continue to carry, the delicacy you now weaponize with shy fingers that trail down over your own stomach, inching closer to your underwear.

“What’s the deal?” he asks without complying to your request.

Immediately, you pause your wandering hands to lean forward, balancing your elbows on your knees as a hand grabs at his chin. It’s daring, even for you, but oh so rewarding. Blown out pupils swallow up the shades of gold that thread his irises as you give him no other choice to focus on your face again.

“What do you want?” he’s the one now desperate, still on his knees, urgency drowning out any cockiness that had been in his tone to begin with. He’s at your mercy, “Tell me what you want, and it’s yours.”

“Honesty.”

He’s turned into something impenetrable. You can practically feel the waves of his ocean still. Neither of you breathe for one second, two seconds, three seconds. Only three seconds, but it could have been an eternity there in his kitchen.

Your grip on his chin never falls.

“Honesty?” he questions, brows furrowing, eyes narrowing, “I already told you, princess, you either get one or the other. You can’t have both. Not happening.”

“No?” you coo, finally removing your fingers from his skin. There’s not a single sign of the hold you had on him, your touch having been as soft as a butterfly’s wings. He’s unmarked, and he’ll remain that way, unless he agrees to your terms. You’re determined now. The upper hand won’t be sliding from your grasp as easily as it had fallen from his, “That’s a shame.”

You lean back and his eyes follow your every movement, “And why’s that?”

“Because if you’re not honest, you’re not laying a hand on me.”

“That’s still my deal, baby,” he’s trying to be condescending again, to get you back under his thumb and constrained by his idea of a distraction.

It won’t work. Not this time.

He leans forward, and just as his breath hits the wet spot that had begun to form over your clothed cunt, you bring a hand to his forehead and push him away. Your knees snap shut immediately as he tries to keep his balance, leaning back on his haunches.

He’s glaring up at you now. But he’s still not desperate enough.

“Not your deal at all,” you continue on. You’re enjoying yourself far too much, and he can tell. His breathing is picking up, his jaw has locked as he gazes up at you, “See, pretty boy, with my deal, we could have our cake and eat it too,” He swallows hard as you bring a hand up to one of your breasts, “You’re honest with me, and I let you get your mouth on my pussy. A win for everyone.”

“And if I’m not honest?”

“Then I’ll take care of myself. I’m a big girl, simple as that.”

You’ve had to spell it out for him, but it finally clicks in his mind. You can watch the mechanics of him processing your words in real time, and that desperation you’ve been seeking out this entire time has arrived. Pathetic, big eyes. Lips twitching to avoid falling victim to a pout. If you could see his knuckles, you’d find them turning a bright shade of white as he grips his knees painfully.

Just as he opens his mouth to argue again, your finger flicks at your nipple. All words on his tongue die, shrivel, dissipate at the sound of your soft moan.

“Such a shame,” you sigh out, heading lulling backwards. The back of your skull hits his cabinet with a soft thump and you hope that it won’t ache once the adrenaline and euphoria has passed, “I was kind of excited to see what that mouth could do besides piss me off.”

“You’re bluffing,” he deadpans, zeroing in on your fingers as they let go of one nipple and move onto the next, “You’ll cave before I do, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think I will,” your voice is breathless as you twist your nipple, arching your back into the touch for emphasis. It’s not as good as his hands would be, you know that, but you’re not backing down now. You have your eyes on the prize, staring down honesty with the same intensity that he stares between your legs.

“No? Are you sure you aren’t imagining how much better my fingers could be? My hands?” he eggs on. Almost as if subconsciously, he’s leaning forward into your gravitation again. When his nose brushes your knee, your thighs clench harder.

It’s not to keep him out. His words travel down your spine, wrapping and shocking all the way down until they’ve reached your core.

His hands would feel better, but his honesty will feel the best.

“You forget that before tonight, I went about life just fine without your hands,” you reply as you finally let your hand begin down a path over your torso again, starting at your sternum and traveling at an agonizing pace. You’re teasing yourself just as he would, as you know he wants to.

As you know he craves to.

“Yeah?” he chuckles lowly. Your eyes flutter close as your fingers reach the band of your panties, and you try to imagine the look on his face as you prepare yourself for his taunting, “I’ve seen the way you stare at my hands, baby. I’ve caught you staring when I’m playing with my rings. That dumb expression on your face as you watch me tap on tables. Just how many times have you imagined them wrapped around your throat, or knuckles deep in that pussy, before tonight?”

Your eyes snap open. His chest is puffed up both in self-satisfaction and heaving breaths, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. And he knows you’re watching intently, making a show of it as he slows the drag of it. A small teasing of this tongue could be on you right now.

“See, now you’re asking a bit much of me, don’t you think?” you try to keep your tone even as your hand stays poised at the edge of your underwear, making eye contact once more, “Sounds a lot like you’re asking for honesty from me. You shouldn’t ask for things you can’t give in return.”

With those words, your hand plunges into your underwear, fingers sliding between your folds, teasing your hole as you gather wetness to trail back up to your clit.

It breaks Eddie. Seeing your fingers hidden by your panties, pleasuring yourself, making whines begin to spill out between gasps, pulled from the back of your throat as your knees separate enough to accommodate your hand.

“What do you want me to be honest about?” he nearly barks out. You see his shoulder moving, arm crossing closer to his lap, and know his palming himself through his sweats.

You take the time to insert a finger into your clenching hole, Eddie’s eyes finding yours at the intrusion, biting down your moan into a mere hum before saying, “Why do you hate me?”

“Right now?” he gasps out, confirming he is touching himself to the show you’re putting on, “I hate you for being such a fucking brat. I hate you for thinking you’re in control right now.”

“I am in control.”

You slip in a second finger, curling them in sync as you press them in knuckle-deep. It’s not enough – it’s not as good as his fingers. You whine out at the thought, bucking your hips against your hand, palm applying pressure on your clit.

“Baby, you wish you were-” he goes to bring a hand to your knee again, and you’re already ready with a hand, grabbing his wrist sharply this time.

“How hard are you right now?” you ask, having to slow your movements to get out any coherent words. You can feel his heartbeat racing below his skin, feel the taunt muscles of his arm as he tries to exercise self-constraint. He’s losing – he’s failing, miserably.

Just having his skin against yours as you continue to pump your own fingers into yourself has more intense waves of pleasure tearing through you.

“How- I-” he stutters. He’s licking his lips again, but this time, it’s not to tease you.

He craves it as much as you need it. You need his honesty, and you need his goddamn mouth on you.

“I asked you a question,” you pant, grip tightening on him. You can see his shoulder shifting more fervently now, see the flush of his cheeks. He’s touching himself, and he’s close.

If he finishes first, he wins. You can’t have that.

“Tell me how hard you are right now, honestly, and I’ll let you touch me.”

A snap in his composure. You feel it in the twitch of his wrist in your grasp. “Hard. So fucking hard, I can’t fucking think right now,” you begin to get starry vision, pumping your fingers faster, curling harder to reach for a spot you can’t seem to find when his eyes are on you and his hands are right there, “If I don’t get my mouth on you within the next five seconds, sweetheart, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

You’re right on the edge, teetering over a cliffside. At the bottom are all the repercussions of what is to come. The breeze of your defeat, the call of his honesty. You don’t have to think twice; you remove your hand from yourself despite the disappointment that ruffles your entire body, and your knees fall open to him.

He hardly gives you the time to release your grip on his wrist before his fingers are tearing into the waistband of your panties and tearing them down your thighs, letting them fall to the floor limply once they brush your ankles. His palms dig into the meat of your thighs, spreading you impossibly apart and tugging you to nearly hang off the edge of the counter before he’s bringing his face to your hot core.

And then he pauses. You’re waiting for the feeling of his tongue in you, his nose to bump your clit, and he pauses.

“For the record,” he breathes out, and it has your core clenching against nothing as you feel it against you. His fingers dig into your thighs harsher, “I never hated you.”

You look down at him, pretty between your thighs, brown eyes sparkling, “Are you being honest right now?”

“I am,” he doesn’t hesitate, leaning forward and kissing your mound, “I could never hate you.”

You’ve won. Your victory settles in the air around the two of you, your victory whispers between each kitten lick he makes at your clit, to each thrust of his fingers when he presses two into you without warning. Your victory tangles in his hair just as your hands do as your hips buck up against his mouth, desperate and uncaring in lack of control. Your victory splotches your vision, blacking it out when he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. Your victory dances with the stars behind your eyelids as he curls his finger into the spot you’d been searching for, as he traces an unspoken language over your clit, as you repeatedly call out his name and he murmurs “good girl” in vibrations that reverberate through your core, your spine, your vines, your flames.

You’ve won. But it doesn’t feel like winning when you’re coming down from your high, Eddie pressing kisses to your inner thigh and lips shining from your slick, and his words come back to haunt you.

“I could never hate you.”

The victory has come at a cost. One that neither of you address as you catch your breaths. As you slump to the side, resting your temple against the side of his cool refrigerator, you look down to see a wet spot spread across the crotch of Eddie’s sweatpants.

You knew he had been touching himself to you touching yourself, but the patch is far too large to have just been precum.

“Did you…” you murmur, fighting a grin, “Did you cum from eating me out?”

Eddie, remarkably enough, isn’t even shameless as he rakes a hand through his curls, pursing his lips in a way that only accentuates to the slow curl upwards of the corners, “You look so surprised for someone who was so insistent that I needed that more than you did.”

“I was right,” you laugh, lifting out of your lean supported by the appliance to your left, “I knew it.”

He only chuckles back in response, rising slowly from his kneeling position, “Yeah, yeah, Sherlock Holmes. You cracked the case – congratulations,” he doesn’t close the space between the two of you as he stands there, and his words pester the back of your mind again. If you could never hate me, why are you so far away right now? “Stay here, I can come back with another ra-”

“You don’t have to clean me up again,” you interrupt. His words are pushing forward now. I could never hate you. It doesn’t make sense, doesn’t fit right into everything you already know of Eddie, “I’ll be fine. Just clean yourself up, yeah?”

He looks taken back, but says nothing more as he nods before leaving the kitchen. He sends you one last glance, one last chance to say more. But you can’t say a word to him, or even meet his gaze, as you filter through endorphins and try to pull sensibility from what just happened.

He leaves, and you regret. You don’t regret doing all of this with him – you’d enjoyed it, he’d enjoyed it, it was good – but you regret how it’s happening. You regret all the emotions it’s nurturing. Feelings that turn it all complicated, that make this entire ordeal more than something casual. This night is going to haunt your mind for the rest of your days. It has carved out an emptiness inside of you that hadn’t been there before, or maybe it had been, and you had already spent a year filling it in with the dirt of sour interactions and abrasive fights.

It didn’t really matter, though, whether it had been there before tonight or not. All that matters is the space there was empty once more, hollowed out by five simple words.

“I could never hate you.”

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @amira0303 @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @tlclick73 @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

taglist is now closed.

#twenty four hours #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you

2K notes · View notes

cailynwrites · 4 months

Text

Harry Potter Rec Fest Day 21 - Thought-provoking

@hprecfest - this prompt was itself very thought-provoking, it made me go back and think about the fics that made me close my Kindle and stare at a wall for a while. The fics I love best make me re-examine canon and rethink the things I knew about characters and situations, or even my own life.

The Audacity of Lavender Brown by @malpal132 Pairing: Lavender x Charlie Word count: 6,457 Rating: E

Canon did Lavender Brown dirty. I'm not sure who did her dirtier - JKR or the movies - but I really think she's unfortunately a one-dimensional plot device in a series of books already bereft of strong, admirable female characters. @malpal132 sets out to change this. This fic not only made me rethink Lavender in and out of canon, but female characters in general. Come for the feminism, stay for the sexy smut with Charlie Weasley.

Pop Up Pals by bambimoss Pairing: Draco x Harry Word count: 62,447 Rating: E

I love down-and-out Draco. I think it's a good impetus for a redemption arc and humanizes him for Harry and others who spent years villainizing him. This fic takes it to another level. I got literal stomach aches feeling so sorry and sad for Draco in this fic. As an introvert who doesn't love leaving the house but still experiences loneliness like all humans, I related to his "imaginary friends" and the embarrassment of having your lackluster (as judged by others) personal life outed. I don't want to spoil too much, because this fic is so small and heartbreaking and wonderful. You all need to experience it for yourselves.

************************************************************************

And finally, a couple of little self-recs ...

Keep Your Eyes on Me by @ahhhnorealnamesallowed - a Podfic (Spotify) Pairing: Draco x Harry Word count: 2,786 Length: 17:55 Rating: T

How Harry became a tattoo artist. The descriptions of art in this fic are so beautiful; I can picture them clearly. The writing is efficient and minimalist but evokes so much emotion. I love this alternate journey for Harry - a way for him to work through some of his trauma.

A Gift of True Esteem by @teledild0nix - a Podfic (Spotify) Pairing: Draco x Harry Word count: 53,965 Length: 5:37:00 Rating: E

This is a personal one. I recorded this for the wonderful @teledild0nix at the request of their partner for an anniversary gift. Of course, I said yes! It's a sweet and thought-provoking fic: Hogwarts professors Drarry, educational reform, werewolves, actual queer representation, adorable magical pets. For me, the educational reform was the thought-provoking part, and Liddy does a great job laying out some of the problems with Hogwarts curriculum and then trying to fix it. I so enjoyed recording it, and even moreso the thought of @teledild0nix listening to it.

Mini-soapbox rant to hopefully make my post meta-thought-provoking: Liddy's partner asked me, when recording this, if they could compensate me for my work. I do some paid audiobook work in my free time, but this is fanfic, and I would have done this for free just because it's such a sweet thing for someone to do for a loved one.

(Shouting into the void and very much not at @teledild0nix's lovely partner:) But also don't try to monetize fandom!!! We do this out of love for the fandom and to increase accessibility for those who might not always be able to read. It's fun, it brings people together, and no one should be making money off it! Let's just all scream on the internet about how great and fun it is, okay?

#hprecfest2023 #hp podfic #lavender brown x charlie weasley #drarry #keep money out of fandom

13 notes · View notes

hope-for-the-best-98 · 2 years

Text

When You Feel Insecure (Eddie Munson X Reader)

Masterlist Spotify Playlist

Summary: Eddie helps you when you're feeling insecure about yourself.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: SMUT (18+ only), fingering, piv, mirror sex, dirty talk, drabble heavily implies reader has insecurities about her appearance. (Please let me know if I have missed anything).

A/N: Work's been pretty hectic right now, so not writing as much as I want. But I am still (very slowly) making progress with the next chapter of Study Sessions, so please don't think I've abandoned it! But enjoy this little smutty drabble that has been taking up my brain the last week or so. I've discovered I am very out of practice with writing smut, so please be gentle with me...

You bought the dress months ago, a pretty off-the-shoulder red number that you fell in love with straight as you saw it in the store window. You only needed a few words of encouragement from Eddie to take the leap and buy it.

Red’s your colour, sweetheart. And I think it would look really good on the floor of my bedroom, and your bedroom, my van too…

But now as you stand in front of your mirror, adjusting the neckline and trying to pull the bottom of it past your knee, you feel… Wrong in it. You’re thinking this would be the one, the confidence booster you have been craving for the last couple of days. You didn’t want to wear a basic pair of trousers and a blouse for Wayne’s birthday meal. You want to make an effort, look nice in something that wasn’t your work uniform or a band shirt you wear to Eddie’s gigs. You just want to feel beautiful. Something to make you feel right in your skin again.

You hear a knock at the door and you wipe under your eyes to catch the unshed tears before they fall. “Come in.”

Eddie pushes the door open slowly, presenting you with that shit eating grin like he always does. He’s even made an effort to look presentable for the dinner. Dressed all in black, wearing his signature leather jacket that you steal at any chance you get. “Hey, baby. You nearly ready to go?”

“Yeah, I’m just…” You sigh quietly, pulling at the fabric hugging your waist. “Finishing up.”

He nods his head, wolf whistling at you as he approaches. “You look perfect, Angel. We’ve gotta meet Wayne at the restaurant in like twenty minutes, so if you’re nearly ready-”

“I know, Eddie!”

“Hey, hey…” He soothes, gripping your bare shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

You shrug him off, turning away from him as you reach back for the zipper. “I hate how I look in this stupid dress. I don’t know why I bought it.”

“You’re kidding, right? Like, you’re totally fucking with me? Is this like a boyfriend test or something?”

You glare at him over your shoulder. “Just help me with the zipper. I need to…” You trail off, looking at your clothes scattered across your bedroom floor. “Find something else to wear. ”

You turn to face the mirror as he steps behind you, sighing quietly as you feel his fingers on the back of your dress. You wait for him to unzip it the rest of the way, but instead he pulls the zip back up and pats your back.

“Eddie, we don’t have time for this-”

He shushes you, pulling your hair back so he can kiss your neck. “We’ll make time. Now, just listen to me. Really listen to me.” He looks at you in the reflection of the mirror. “Got it?”

You huff, but lean back into him anyway. “Fine.”

You see him smile into your neck before trailing his lips up to your jaw. “Good. Now look at yourself in the mirror.”

You turn your head to look at him, your brow furrowing as you chew on your bottom lip. You’re not sure why you suddenly feel so nervous, especially in front of Eddie. The person who you trust, confide in, who looks at you like you’re the only person that matters. But you sometimes struggle with being vulnerable, even with the people you can be vulnerable with. Especially on days like these, when you just wanna crawl into a hole and be forgotten about.

Eddie notices your hesitation and he kisses you gently. “Please?”

“Okay.” You whisper, turning to face the mirror and catching Eddie’s eye in the reflection.

“Not me.” He mumbles into your ear, a hand reaching up to grip your jaw gently. “You.”

You reluctantly meet your own eyes in the mirror and sigh. “Now what?”

“I don’t like it when you think about yourself like this. Do you know how beautiful you are?”

You feel your cheeks start to burn from the simple words. “Eddie-“

His runs his thumb across your bottom lip, silencing you. “I’m so lucky to have you, you know that, right? Make me the luckiest guy in the world. And you’re so fucking… Hot.”

He slides his hand down your neck slowly, and slips it into the neckline of your dress, his fingers grazing the top of your strapless lace bra. “Fuck, you wearing a treat under here for me later, huh?”

You bite your lip, trying to stifle your moan as his fingers graze against one of your pebbled nipples. “Was suppose to be a surprise.”

“Jesus Christ.” He groans into your ear, pulling his hand out of your dress and placing it back on your waist. “Matching pair of panties under there too?”

“M-maybe you should check…”

“Yeah, maybe I should.” His hands run down your waist, his knees bending slightly as he touches the inside of your thighs. He grips the bottom of your dress, bunching it up in his hands and pulling it up slowly. “Hold it up for me, sweetheart.”

You do it with no hesitation, your shaky hands holding it against your stomach as you and Eddie make eye contact in the mirror. “Fuck, black lace? All for me?”

“All for you.” You whisper, gasping quietly as his hand dips into the lace fabric of your underwear, zeroing in on your clit almost instantly. You gasp, reaching down to grab onto his wrist. “Oh fuck.”

“God, you’re already wet. Drenching my fingers and I’ve barely even touched you yet. That’s so hot, baby, so fucking hot. I wish you knew how beautiful you are all the time. In the mornings, in your work uniform,” he moans quietly into your ear, “when you wear one of my shirts and nothing else.”

Your chest is pounding, feeling anxious and heated at the same time. You have been on edge all day, but with each swipe of Eddie’s fingers, the frustration seems to melt away, a blinding pleasure that leaves you gasping taking its place.

“I just- sometimes-“ You whimper as he presses down harder, his rough fingers rubbing your clit in a clockwise motion. “Sometimes I just don’t… Feel good in my skin. That maybe you won’t… Find me attractive on days like these.”

“Just feel what you do to me, baby.” He grabs your hand and presses into the obvious bulge in his jeans. “Drive me crazy. Like you put a damn spell on me or something. And I think if I don’t fuck you right now, I might just die.”

“But-“ You bite back a moan as he easily slides his middle finger into your cunt, his thumb rubbing against your clit. “The dinner…”

“I’ll be quick, baby. Promise. You’re soaked already. Won’t take long.”

You nod, your head falling back onto his shoulder. “Bed?”

“I think we should stay right here. The dress is staying on too.” He presses a wet kiss into your cheek before reaching down to unbuckle his belt. “Hands on the mirror, and keep them there. Condom?”

You do as he says, hands resting on the wooden frame of the mirror, back arching as you keep your eyes on the mirror. “Bedside drawer. Where they always are.”

“Right.” He kisses your jaw gently. “Keep those hands on the mirror.”

You hear him rush over to the drawers, hands rummaging through to the pack of condoms you have hidden under your underwear. You know he’s making a mess of everything, images of your underwear being thrown over his shoulder in a haste. His mind seems to go blank when all of his blood rushes South.

“Eddie, please hurry.” You beg.

“I’ve got them, baby. I’m coming.” You see him in the reflection, his broad frame taking up the space behind you. He pulls your dress up, resting it on your lower back as he tugs down your underwear. He kicks your feet apart and you hear him tear open the condom wrapper. “Ready baby?”

You nod quickly, your breath hitching as you feel his cock running through your slick folds. “Don’t tease, you asshole.”

“Just getting him wet, babe. Give me a second.”

You exhale slowly as you feel him start to push inside, your walls welcoming the familiar feel of him. Your hold on the mirror tightens, the cheap wooden frame creaking under your grip. “Oh fuck…”

“We’ve… This has got to be a quickie, okay?” He breathes, his hands finding purchase on your waist as he moves in and out of you slowly, letting you get used to the feeling of him rubbing against your sensitive walls.

“Just fuck me, Eddie. We’ll have time later.”

He chuckles quietly, one of his hands trailing down to grab your ass. “To unwrap my present properly, huh?”

“Uh huh.” You whine, body tensing as he hits that spot inside of you. “Fuck, right there. Don’t stop.”

You look at yourself in the reflection and you realise you look a mess. Makeup beginning to smudge; skin turning red from exertion; bottom lip swollen from your teeth sinking into it to hold in your moans. But as you make eye contact with Eddie in the mirror, his pussy drunk face sends shocks of pleasure throughout you

You moan into the inside of your arm as he speeds up, the mirror rattling against the wall with each thrust. “E-Eddie…”

“You feel so good. Taking me so damn well.” He grunts, reaching forward to cover one of your hands. He entwines his fingers into yours, gripping you tightly as he speeds up. “You gotta stay quiet, baby.”

“Just feels so good.” You mumble into your arm, clenching your eyes shut as you feel yourself getting closer. All the pent-up frustration, the bitterness you have felt for yourself from the last few days seems to disappear as Eddie snaps his hips against you. He always knows what you need, how you need it, and you love him for it.

“God, I can feel you squeezing me. You close, baby?”

“Y-yeah.” You whimper, legs shaking. “Eddie, I can’t…”

He wraps an arm around your middle, holding you against his chest as he fucks up into you. “That’s it, Angel. I’ve got you.”

You cry out and he has to cover your mouth with his hand, trying to keep you held up as your pussy tightens around him, and he follows behind you with only a few more thrusts. He buries his face into your hair and you stumble forward, your forearms catching you from falling face first into the mirror.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He whispers, reluctantly pulling out of you with a groan.

“Don’t be.” You chuckle breathlessly, looking over your shoulder at him. “That was totally worth being late to dinner for.”

He smiles down at you, his hands reaching for your waist to turn you around. He rests his forehead against yours, staring down at you. “Don’t you ever think about yourself like that, okay? You’re perfect just like this.”

You bump your nose into his gently. “Thank you for taking care of me, Munson.”

He grins, pressing a soft kiss against your lips. “Anytime, baby. You still up for dinner?”

“After that?” You grin. “Definitely.”

“Good.” He steps back and takes off the condom, throwing it into your bin before tucking himself back into his underwear and buckling up his belt. “I’ll meet you downstairs. Let you get ready with no more interruptions from me.”

You chuckle quietly, hand resting against the wall as you regain your breath. “Okay hot stuff.”

“And stay in that dress.” He says sternly by the door, pointing at you. “Your ass looks killer in it.”

#eddie munson #Eddie Munson x reader #Eddie Munson x you #stranger things #fanfiction #eddie munson smut

236 notes · View notes

mrs-monaghan · 11 months

Note

Ofcourse Dday may have surprised FACE. How can JM stans buy album anyways? They are not restocking albums. Many fans especially Chinese fans haven't received their pre ordered albums YET, the reason why FACE haven't reached 2 M yet. Hybe can ship their 4 M albums for seventeen on the same day of release but not Jimin's albums.

But streaming Jimin is leading thanks to his fans who always got his back. LC is most sold song, LC still has decent streams in US, LC is still in spotify top 50, Angel is still in US spotify. While others ? Nowhere to be seen. Only if his albums where restocked/shipped on time he'll be 2M+ seller by now

I didn't wanna bring this up because the way this company has been doing Jimin dirty during this whole thing. It just makes me sad anon. It makes me want to cry because this man deserves so much better. From day one there seems to be some sort of fuckery surrounding Jimin. From being threatened to be kicked out everyday till he had to call his dad and tell him not to be disappointed if he doesn't make it, to him being told to tone down his grateness during run bts. From staff ignoring him when he raises his hand to all the things that have happened regarding FACE. Sometimes I wonder why he stays.

Like I mentioned before. If being ot7 is what he prefers then I hope he does like that one girl from Mamamoo who only uses her former company for group projects but works with outsiders for her solo projects. I think that's what Jimin should do

But we dk what goes on behind the scenes and he's the only one who can make the right decision so... 🤷🏽‍♀️ Let's just keep doing our best like we've been doing.

#ask shaz #bts ask #justice for jimin

23 notes · View notes

whatsnewalycat · 2 years

Text

Just Dumb Enough to Try

Chapter 10: Take Me to Church

Word Count: 3.6k

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Content Tags / CW: swearing, smoking, pining, mental health spiral, cheating/infidelity, lying, catholic church, oral sex (m receiving), church sex, bathroom sex, dirty talk, making shit up about Javi's origin story, parent death, car accident death, establishing relationship expectations

Chapter Summary: Our heroes have a fun time at church.

Notes: Chapter title from "Take Me to Church" by Hozier. We've officially made it into the second act of this story- yay! I'm going to take the series summary off of these posts going forward, but if you'd like a series summary, click first chapter. Comments, questions, concerns? Let me know :) I like receiving feedback. OK, THAT'S ALL, THANK YOU FOR READING!

[ First Chapter ] [ Previous Chapter ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ AO3 ]

St. Mary’s Church, Laredo, TX

June 21, 1998

The pew creaks beneath your weight as you shift in your seat between Dan and Cheryl. As far as Baker family outings, going to church is both your least favorite and the most frequent. They’re Catholic, and mass lasts almost an hour and a half most Sundays. This gives you ample time to daydream about anything, as long as you stand, sing, and sit when everyone else does. Overall, you’re there because it makes Dan and his family happy, and (ever the people pleaser) you want to stay on everyone’s good side.

It’s almost always incredibly boring (hence the daydreaming). Today though… you and Javier are stealing glances at each other. Each small glimpse makes your heart skip and cheeks blush. A fluttering feeling creeps across your chest, then liquefies into heat that pools in your center.

You just saw him yesterday afternoon up at the Pour House, but you were there with Dan and his friend, Greg. When Javi entered the bar, he came over to say hello to everyone, then sat down next to you and chatted with you while Dan talked with Greg. Dan didn’t pay the interaction much mind, but on the way home he asked what you two had discussed, to which you answered vaguely, “We were just catching up. You know, wedding planning, how the ranch is going, movies, all that.”

“He hasn’t been trying anything with you, right?”

“Javi? No,” you grimaced, “He’s never been inappropriate with me. We’re just friends.”

“Better not,” he said sternly.

Never mind the fact that his hand was resting on my bare leg the whole time, fingers drawing sweet nothings onto my skin.

You’re in this now. Actively lying, sneaking, cheating.

“Doesn’t he have a thing with Kim, anyway?” you asked, looking out the window. You didn’t think that was still happening, but the question (which you only asked to cause misdirection) churned your stomach with anxiety. Even if they were still seeing each other, it’s not like you’ve established exclusivity with Javi. You’ve barely established a romantic relationship with him.

“Yeah, but you never know with guys like that,” Dan squinted over at you, curling his lip.

The word yeah dug into your skin like a sliver.

What does he mean yeah? Is there something I don’t know? Not that I'm the boss of Javier or anything. He’s free to do what he wants. I'm cool with whatever. I'm cool as a cucumber.

You shrugged, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

So why do I feel like this is my circus and my goddamn monkey?

You’re jostled out of your thoughts as you realize the people in the row in front of you are rising to go get communion. Once they file out and start towards the sanctuary, everyone in your row rises. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom.

When you flush the toilet, you hear the heavy bathroom door open and close as someone enters, but doesn’t go into the other stall. You pull up your underwear and straighten your turquoise dress before emerging, the click clack of your heels echoing around the room. You jump when you look up and see Javi is leaning up against the tile wall, looking up at you, arms crossed expectantly.

“What are you doing?” you ask in a hushed tone, whipping your head around to make sure there’s no one else in here.

He pushes himself off the wall and advances towards you- eyebrows drawn together, lips parted, gaze hot. He’s on you at once, hands cupping your face, guiding you back into the stall, locking the door behind him.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he breathes onto your mouth. A grin spreads across your face and heartbeats like a bass drum start thumping in your chest. You run your fingernails through his hair, gazing up into those mischievous dark brown eyes. He keeps eye contact with you, running his hands up and down your waist affectionately. His whispers continue, “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, I… I need to touch you, I couldn’t stop myself from following you.”

“You’re such a trouble maker,” you tease, then raise yourself up onto the balls of your feet and brush your lips against his, back and forth. He inhales sharply and mimics your motions. The feather light touch sends shivers up your spine. His mouth curls into a smile and you can’t resist any longer. When your lips meet his, he savors the feeling for just a moment before running his tongue along yours. A small gasp escapes you when he bites your bottom lip, then starts trailing kisses down to your neck. You tilt your head back and thrust your hips into his. He runs his tongue in circles down your throat. Your knees go weak and you involuntarily let out a moan.

“I th-thought public bathrooms were o-off limits?” you pant, untucking and unbuttoning his dress shirt until you can reach up and splay your fingers across the tender warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder racks his body, then he presses his lips back to yours.

“I can’t wait any longer. Look at you- fuck ,” he pushes you up against the wall and starts pawing at your dress, trying to get his hands underneath without moving his lips from yours. You shake your head at him coyly, then swap positions with him so he’s the one against the wall. Your hands travel down to his belt buckle, undoing it with a deafening jingle that ricochets off the bathroom walls.

“Must be a special day if you’re wearing underwear,” you tease, tugging at the tight material of his boxer briefs until they’re down to his ankles. Pointing a finger at his mouth, you instruct him to suck. He grabs your wrist as he gladly accepts the digit into his mouth, enthusiastically rolling his tongue around it.

All the air whooshes from his lungs as you crouch down to look at him. His cock is engorged and thick; he is deliciously well-endowed. You look up into his wild eyes as you place your wet finger tip onto the thick bead of pre-cum hanging off of his cock, then drag it down his length. He looks down at you, pleading, desperate for more stimulation.

Javier lets out a small cry when you follow the same path with your tongue, then back up again. You slide the head into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it, then seal your lips around his girth, bobbing back and forth, taking a bit more of him each time. He holds himself back from interfering with your process, watching you graduate his cock to a deeper level with each thrust. Hushed grunts and whines fall from his mouth, seeming so much louder than they actually are as they reverberate off the empty walls.

When the head hits your gag reflex, it gets triggered, and you let out a choking noise. You take it out and catch your breath, stroking him attentively as you try to relax your throat. The sound of you jerking him off is obscenely loud. He groans, “That’s so good baby, h-holy shit yes , you’re such a good girl.”

Sinking down from your crouch onto your knees, you adjust so you can get a better view of him coming undone. Your lips wrap around his cock and you start working faster, relishing the feeling of him rubbing against your lips, your tongue, the roof of your mouth, dipping into your throat when you can handle it. You bring a hand to his balls and cup them, rubbing your thumb across the sensitive sack gently. He shudders under your touch and it only makes you more ravenous.

“Look at me,” he rasps, and your gaze shoots up to him as he chokes out, “That’s perfect, baby. Can you take more?”

Your eyes water when you try, but you’re able to relax enough to start taking him deeper. He nods in approval and you continue working enthusiastically, finding a steady rhythm that makes his eyes flutter. His hands grab onto your hair and you moan, taking him in as deep as you can. “H-holy shit. Can- can I fuck your face?”

You pull off of him, saliva stringing from his cock to your face as you gasp for air, “Fuck- fuck yes, you can do anything to me.”

You take him into your mouth again and look up at him. His lips are puckered, brow furrowed, sweating through his nice dress shirt. He puts a hand on either side of your head and slowly thrusts forward, testing the waters. You relax your throat and jaw enough that on his next thrust, his cock slides deeper into throat. He starts to go faster, at which point you’re sure you could fucking drown someone in your panties with how wet you are. He’s using your mouth as his fuck toy and it’s everything you could ask for in this moment. He whispers sweet affirmations, telling you how good you’re taking him, how fucking sexy you are, how crazy you make him, how you’ve been making a home in his brain, living there, nesting.

The squelching and moaning coming from your mouth is echoing off the walls of this church bathroom, but it’s like you’re the only two people on earth. His lip curls up and his rhythm starts to grow more frenzied. He whimpers, “I’m- I’m gonna cum, baby. In your mouth?” You nod and bat your eyelashes up at him.

He’s looking down at you, tears brimming your lust-blown eyes, cheeks hollowed out, lips swollen and wet as his cock thrusts in and out of your pretty face-

A series of small moans leave his lips. His hips reach a fever pitch, then jerk forward a few times as cum spills into your mouth. You swallow the load while his cock is still submerged. His chest is still heaving when the death grip he has on your head softens and he pulls himself out with a pop . He pulls his boxer briefs up before helping you rise from your knees. Once upright, his thumb runs along your tingling, swollen lips, then he kisses you, coaxing your mouth open with his tongue so he can be inside you one more time before parting.

He pulls himself together and re-enters the chapel while you review the damage in the bathroom mirror. You look… like you just sucked someone off, honestly. Hair mussed, red puffy lips, mascara transferred onto your cheeks… and is that a fucking hickey ??

I’m going to murder him.

Once you fix yourself up the best you can and exit the bathroom, you realize the recessional hymn is playing, and decide that there’s really no point in going back into the chapel.

So, you grab your sketchbook and cigarettes out of your car, then open the hatchback so you can sit in the cargo area. Thankfully, your dress is long enough that you can cross your legs and prop the book up onto your thigh without the world seeing your soaked underwear. Cigarette in one hand, pencil in the other, you look around for inspiration; an out of place willow tree catches your eye, so you start to draw it. You hear a familiar gait approach and peak up from your paper to confirm it’s Javi. He lights up and sits next to you, observing your work in progress.

“Hello there,” you grin.

“Long time no see,” he winks.

A hum buzzes off your lips, then you point to the new marking on your skin with your pencil and scold him, “You gave me a hickey.”

His eyebrows raise and eyes widen; he winces as he inspects the enflamed skin, “ Shit . I got a little too carried away, I’m sorry.”

You look over at his apologetic face and wave it off, “I’ll just say I burned myself with my curling iron or something,” then continue sketching. Truth be told, you like the marking because it’s from him. If it weren’t for your scandalous predicament you’d wear it like a badge of honor. He leans back onto his elbows and casually watches you work, puffing away like a chimney. The silence that settles is comfortable. It’s so easy to spend time with him.

The other day, the two of you laid in the bed of his truck, bodies tangled in some configuration or another until the sun set. You exchanged ghost stories and urban legends. He told you that he believes in ghosts, which is shocking, but forbade you from telling a soul. Even after the cold set in until it made your fingertips numb and your bodies ached from laying against the hard metal ridges of truck bed, you were playing chicken, seeing which of you would say they have to leave first.

His presence is like a blanket, warm and comforting. But you sense that you have barely skimmed the surface of this man. You suppose he could say the same about you, too, and he’d be right. It seems that both of you have built a fortress around your hearts. With each talk, laugh, kiss, touch, comfortable silence… you allow yourselves to disarm it a little more.

Javi sits up and reviews at your progress. You tell him, “Did you know that if you plant a willow branch, a new tree will grow from it?”

He turns to look at you, raising his eyebrows, smiling at this fun fact, “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Probably not this one, though,” he bites the inside of his cheek for a beat, then continues, gesturing to the huge shaggy tree, “It’s completely illogical that this tree is growing here. Weeping willows don’t grow in Texas.”

Your face screws up in confusion, “They don’t? Then how…?”

He looks as bewildered as you, “I have no idea. It’s why my abuela chose this church, though, because it’s a miracle that it exists here,” his gaze drops to his fidgeting hands, “Funny enough, my parents ended up meeting here when they were kids. Pop was homeschooled, so I don’t even know if they would have met otherwise.”

You set down your pencil and turn to him, “That’s how your parents ended up meeting? A freak willow tree brought them to the same place?”

“It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that,” he laughs.

“It’s like a fairy tale,” you giggle, placing your hand on his arm, “So, yes, it is ridiculous. But also… romantic. I love it.”

You rub your thumb affectionately against his arm through his suit jacket, hesitating to ask the question on the tip of your tongue. Speaking softly, you ask, “I’m sorry if this is out of line, but… is your mom…?”

“She died in 1982,” his gaze flicks to yours, you suppose he’s gauging whether or not to continue, “in a car accident,” he takes a deep breath and looks off at nothing in particular, “I uh… I was the Sheriff’s Deputy here at the time and first responder on the scene.”

“ Fuck , Javi,” you whisper, limbs falling limp at the implication.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares into the distance with that haunted look upon his face. When he opens his mouth to continue, his voice is raspy, “Seeing her… that’ll stick with me forever. She was already dead, couldn’t do anything, but I tried. My dad hasn’t been the same since then, you know. We uh… we miss her a lot.”

“Javi-“ you squeeze his arm and he turns towards you, eyes somber and watery. You pull him in for an embrace, cradling his head on your chest. It doesn’t matter who sees or what they think about this moment, that’s not what’s important. You brush your fingers through his locks, holding him close, breathing in the scent that’s so perfectly him. You wish you could take away all the pain, but know you can’t. His body becomes less rigid as he melts into you and wraps his arms around your torso. Quietly, you tell him, “I’m sorry that happened to you. And… thank you for trusting me with your story.”

“Thank you for listening, cariño.” he mumbles into your chest. You release him. The pet name he’s given you tightens your chest and makes you blush every time it rolls off his lips.

“Anytime,” you try to wink. It doesn’t work.

“You ok?” he raises an eyebrow at you while leaning back onto his elbows.

“Yeah I was um… winking at you,” you hide your reddened face.

He snorts, amused smile breaking out on his face, “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you clamp your lips together, stifling laughter. Then look back up at him to demonstrate your wink again, which is more like one eye clenching shut while the other twitches uncontrollably.

Laughter erupts out of both of you. He asks between breaths, “You- you know what a wink is, right?”

“Oh my god shut the fuck up,” you cackle, smacking his chest, “I was just trying to be charming, like you!”

“You’re plenty charming. Maybe not good at winking, but you are charming,” he grins over at you and winks perfectly.

“You’re lucky I like you so much or I’d kick your ass,” you tease. Your heart lurches in your chest when you see the endearing way he’s looking at you.

He mumbles, “I’d like to see you try.”

You roll your eyes at him playfully and turn your attention back to drawing the freak of nature willow tree. Javier observes you occasionally while watching people, particularly keeping an eye out for either of your families. Eventually, you start thinking about Javier and Kim again, and curiosity gets the best of you. It just keeps gnawing at your mind and you can’t stop yourself from asking.

“I- I have a question,” you squeak.

He furrows his brow and looks over at you expectantly.

“Are you… seeing Kim?” you stumble, “Like, too? - I mean- obviously I have no say in that or whatever but-“ you clear your throat, “just, like, so I know.. you know?”

He seems to freeze up as he’s processing this. Your heart beats faster, tension builds in your shoulders, and you literally cannot stop yourself from continuing, “Because I know you two had uhm… kissed, or whatever, and you were her date last weekend…”

His expression doesn’t change, his eyes just search your face. You wriggle in your seat nervously.

“But we started uhh,” you swallow hard, trying to pantomime, “I guess, this… thing. And I just want to know.”

At this point, your heart is pounding so hard, you feel dizzy and you’re practically panting.

Am I sweating? Am I having a panic attack?

“No, I’m not involved with Kim. Or anyone else. Just you,” h e looks down at his hands, “I actually talked to her- Kimmy- after last weekend. We both agreed it would be better if we’re friends.”

The festering bundle of anxiety in your chest dissipates with a heavy exhale, immediately replaced by embarrassment and relief, “Why did you let me keep rambling like that? Jesus Christ.”

He raises his hands in the air defensively, “I was waiting for you to finish talking!” Then chuckles and smiles at you, “Besides, you were pretty cute, getting all flustered like that.”

Your face burns scarlet and you try to hide it by looking down at your paper and letting your hair cover your face. You feel him watching you.

“Hey, look at me,” he says softly. You sigh as you look up and let him see your beet red face. He tucks the hair in your face behind your ear, “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, then look down, “It’s just so silly because, you know, I’m fucking engaged. Why do I care if you see someone else? How is that even fair?” you confide, then throw your head back and groan, “It’s not. It’s not fair. But I think of you with someone else and, fuck , it tears me up. But what if you’re holding off on pursuing someone because of me? What if that person is the one you’re supposed to be with? What happens when I-” you stop and shake your head.

What happens when I fall in love and you leave for someone better?

He takes this opportunity to cut in and stop you from rambling into oblivion, “I’m pursuing you because I want you. I wouldn’t normally entertain the idea of being a paramour, trust me. It wouldn’t be worth the hassle,” your eyebrows draw together, you look over at him. He meets your gaze and smirks, “For anyone else, it wouldn’t be worth it. But you are.”

You realize you haven’t been breathing, so take a sharp inhale. Your heart hammers in your chest and you can feel heat rising in your face again. Every part of you feels a magnetic pull to him, aching for his touch.

“Why would you say something like that to me when we’re in public and I can’t kiss you?” you chide.

He grins at you so wide you can see his dimples and goddamn him .

“Can you wait until tomorrow?”

“If I have to.”

“I’ll pick you up around 3?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip.

You look down at the willow tree doodle, tear its page out, and hand it to him before you scoot out of the car, “I should go see what’s taking them so long. Bye, Javi.”

“See you tomorrow, beautiful.”

You don’t look back as you make your way back into the church, but by the time you and Dan come back out to leave, the trunk is closed and his red truck is gone from the lot.

[ Next Chapter ]

131 notes · View notes